


Cut Purse

by CaptainFangirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainFangirl/pseuds/CaptainFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living on the streets of Paris is not an easy life. Especially when you keep getting in the way of Athos of the Musketeers. Trying to cut his purse was probably a bad idea. Running into him again was a terrible one. But at least life is a little more exciting. Things couldn't get much worse...right? Just as long as no body finds out about...well...everything. Originally Posted on Fanfiction.net under the pen-name Team-Jazz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

****Hello! This seems to be a fairly small fandom at the moment but I can't stop myself from writing some sweet Musketeer action! I wish more people would watch it, it's so good!** **

**Things may seem a little confusing at first, but please stick with me. This is not a Slash fic, things will become...clearer later.**

**This fic was originally posted on Fanfiction.net under my pen-name Team-Jazz. I thought I'd try it out over here!**

**I hope you enjoy this tale!**

**The Musketeers belongs to the BBC**

* * *

_ Prologue _

There was a new boy in the gang. He could hardly have been older than five or six, and yet here he was, out on the street with the rest of them. He was a skinny little runt, half-starved, hair matted to his head. He kept wiping his nose with his sleeve, but the snot seemed to constantly pour from his nostrils. Claude liked him. It was hard not to care for the little runt. Small and smelly though he was, he was one of them now. And they looked after their own. They had to.

Life in Paris was not an easy one, not for the poor anyway. While the nobility strode around in their rich silks, the poor scrabbled around in the dirt trying to make a living. Those who couldn't work became beggars, the lowest of the low. They were spat on, beaten, ignored, treated more like animals than people. Once you were out on the street there was no going back. That was it. Life was over. The only thing you could do was try and survive for as long as possible.

The little troupe of children was lead by the eldest, a thin but wiry character, Thomas. At the age of 23, he'd reached manhood quite sometime ago, but he'd never had the heart to leave his brothers. Most were under the age of ten, and although they were fairly street wise, they were still vulnerable. Thomas could find places for them to sleep at night, abandoned burnt out houses, thickets and the occasional ditch. They listened to Thomas, and looked up to him as a father. He'd organise them, protect them and teach them. Teach them to steal to live.

The group Claude was out with that day were made up of four boys. The eldest, Fabien, was 14, headstrong and a bully. His younger brother Fred trailed after him like a shadow, quiet and thoughtful. He was one of their best pick-pockets, light on his feet and steady handed. Gaspard was the same age as Fred, and was a bit slow-witted. Claude almost resented taking him along with them. And of course there was the new boy. He hadn't uttered a name yet. In fact he hadn't really said anything. They still didn't know if he spoke. So they just called him Mud. Because that's what he was covered in when he arrived.

It was raining that day, a light drizzle. The boys didn't seem to notice, strolling casually down the thin streets of Paris, looking for potential marks. The market place was a good place to start, there would be plenty of people out shopping for their wares. It would be busy too, less easy to get noticed. The five of them lounged against the side of a building, watching. Until Fabien started to get restless.

"Let's just go. Pick a random person for god's sake!" He moaned, hitting his head off of the wall behind him. Claude shook his head in reply.

"No, we do this properly. Mud has to learn, and I'm not letting him get caught on his first try,"

Fabien muttered something under his breath but the older boy ignored him, giving Mud a nudge to get his attention.

"Right little man, you ready?"

He nodded a quiet response.

"When I give the signal, you go ahead, just like we practiced. A quick slice to the money pouch, catch the coins and away. No problem,"

Fabien was still muttering. "Can't see why we can't just corner some rich s-,"

"Look! Musketeers!" Gaspard was pointing to the other side of the square, where sure enough, three blue cloaked gentlemen could be seen walking through the crowds.

Two of them were talking to a younger lad with no cloak, joking and laughing, in high spirits. The third was following behind, a sullen look on his face, looking idly at the stalls on either side. They all wore pistols and swords on their hips, and hats perched on their heads. Claude hushed Gaspard, not wanting to draw unwanted attention. He kept talking with the others animatedly, under his breath.

"Look at those pistols! When I'm older, I'm getting one of those blue cloaks, you just wait and see,"

"Don't be stupid Gaspard, you're a beggar and an idiot, why would they want you?" Fabien scoffed.

"You take that back!"

"No,"

"I'll be a musketeer, and I'll be rich and I won't give you anything," Gaspard spat at Fabien's feet. Mud took a step backwards. But Fabien didn't seem to take any notice. He had a look of dawning comprehension on his face.

"Money. They've got money. Probably a lot of it. That one at the back, we could get him good!"

Claude stood open mouthed for a second, lost for word. Was he seriously...yes he was. What a complete idiot!

"Don't even think about it!" He snapped. "Do you wan't to get yourself killed?"

"Not myself, no. Mud. Think of it as a initiation into the group," He was grinning at mud now. The younger boy was staring wide eyed back at the blue cloaked men.

Claude stood up straight, drawing himself to full height, which wasn't very impressive. Fabien still had a good few inches on him. But he still managed to push him back into the wall behind, jabbing a firm finger into his chest.

"He'll do nothing of the sort!"

"Who put you in charge anyway Claude? We don't need no coward telling us what to do! I bet the little mite is too scared to try, just like you!" The spittle was flying from Fabien's mouth into the older boys face. He didn't flinch however, only prodded harder.

"I'm the eldest Fabien! And I do what Thomas tells me! If he says I'm in charge, I'm in charge! Now shut up, and calm down! Leave Mud out of this!"

Fabien laughed. An odd response. What was so funny?

"Looks like Mud's decided to prove himself after all,"

The colour drained from Claude's face. He whipped around, scanning the crowd quickly. There was the young boy, sneaking up towards the straight faced musketeer, small knife in hand, ready to cut the purse hanging from his waist. There was no way this would end well.

"Shit,"

Claude gave Fabien a final shove up against the wall and then darted through the crowd. The market was bust today, and he was bustled about, gaining disapproving looks from many a passer by. People were muttering and cursing at him, he was hardly stealthy. Just as long as he could get to the boy in time.

There. Dead ahead. He had his hands out, about to do the deed. Claude launched himself forward. Grabbing the small boy and pulling him backwards in the nick of time.

"No Mud!" He hissed quietly. "You don't listen to Fabien!"

Mud looked thoroughly ashamed of himself, staring at his feet. He gave Claude's rough sleeve a pull, grabbing his attention further. The older boy bent down the same level as Mud.

"His purse. It's full," He muttered, looking up with eyes that held a hint of excitement. "I bet you could do it Claude!"

Over the course of the next few weeks, Claude would look back on that moment. The moment that seemed to decide his fate. From that point on, everything would change. A family would be lost, a new one gained, secrets would be out, and secrets would be made. All because of the first words that Claude heard uttered by that small, scrawny boy that he seemed so fond of. Yes, it would all come down to trying to make that little boy happy.

Claude took the little knife from the boy, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. It felt as if he was walking on air, treading lightly across the dirty street, gaining once more on the Musketeer. There it was, his purse hanging from the man's belt. He lent forwards, knife gripped in his sweaty hand, and took a deep breath. Claude reached forward to cut the purse.

It happened quickly. One moment he was seconds away from his prize, the next, he was pinned against the wall of the building next to him. His arm was twisted up above him in a painfully tight grip. The musketeer toward above him, looming over, blocking out the light. He gasped, winded, and flinched as the grip tightened on his wrist painfully. The knife fell from his hand with a clatter, onto the ground below.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice your little gang of cut-purses boy? Especially after you sent the little one over first? How old is he? Four? Five?" His voice was deep, well spoken.

"I- I-," Claude stuttered. His eyes were wide, and he was trying extremely hard not to make water in his breeches.

"Do you know the punishment for theft? Branding? And that's all you'd get if you were lucky!"

Claude was well aware of this fact. He'd seen many a boy taken away for punishment, returning with a brand burnt into his skin. Some never came back. And now it was about to happen to him.

"Please sir, we didn't mean no harm-,"

"The boy. He's in your care?"

Claude gulped over the giant lump in his throat and started nodding quickly. "He came to us last week. Hasn't spoken a word until today. We couldn't leave him to starve sir, you've got to understand! We're hungry!"

There was a flicker of emotion on the man's face but it quickly vanished. His jaw was set tightly, eyes cold. It was very imposing.

A chuckle could be heard to the side, and Claude looked around to find the other three men approaching. The youngest looked confused, if not slightly concerned. The other two were still grinning between each other. Movement caught Claude's eye to his right. Mud. He was standing stock still, eyes wide, bottom lip wobbling dangerously. Right in the open, exposed.

"Mud! Run! RUN!" Claude shouted straining against the man's tight grip.

The little boy turned on his heal and pelted through the crowd, kicking dirt and straw up as he went. The musketeer turned his head, watching him leave, momentarily distracted. Claude took his chance. The man was much bigger than he was, tall and muscular. But a swift knee driven up between his legs did the job, and he doubled over, cursing. Claude was out under his arm in a flash, ignoring the shouts of his comrades as he disappeared into the crowd.

Athos straightened up to find the boy had vanished. He jerked forward as a great, big hand gave him a hearty slap on the back.

"Ah, the great Musketeer Athos, bested by a cut-purse!" Porthos chuckled.

"Shut up," Was the reply he received, and then the men continued on their way.


	2. A Job Done Too Well

When Claude finally returned to the group, he was out of breath and exhausted. The abandoned house they'd been living in on the edge of town was damp and musty, but he knew there was a pile of straw with his name on it, and all he wanted to do was collapse in a heap, and sleep of the day's drama. Thomas had other ideas apparently.

As soon as Claude was through the door Thomas had him by the arm and was dragging him into a quiet corner, away from the staring eyes of the younger kids, who were all clamoring to hear about Claude's run in with the Musketeers. It was evident that the rest of the boys were already back. And spreading rumors like wildfire.

"What the hell were you playing at?" Thomas hissed at him. For the second time today, Claude found himself with his back against a wall and a taller man towering over him. It was beginning to get a little boring.

"Yes, I know, it was stupid, we're all fine, I'm going to sleep," He tried to push past but Thomas blocked his way.

"Did they follow you?

"Yes, I lead them right to our front door," Claude drawled before shoving past Thomas' arm. "No Thomas! Why do you think it took me so long to get back? I've been jumping at my own shadow all day! Now will you leave off, I'm going to sleep!"

The older boy let him go, perhaps the matter was done with, or perhaps he saw that there was no point arguing with Claude while he was in that mood. Claude made his way through to the back room of the house, where the roof was mostly intact. The floor was covered with straw, which was home to a few stray mice, although they didn't bother him. He'd seen worse things in his time on the streets than some rodents. Mud was already there, lying in the corner. His eyes were open though, and they lit up when Claude walked in. He went to sit up but the boy stopped him.

"Get some rest Mud. No harm done,"

Mud shuffled further into the hay and closed his eyes. He was sleeping in minutes.

Just as Claude had settled into a semi-comfortable possession on the hard floor, Fabien walked in with his younger brother acting as his shadow. His chest was puffed out, and there was a gleam in his eyes that Claude didn't like.

"Alright there Claude? Had a nice day?" The boys snickered.

"Quite peachy thank-you Fabien. Where have you been?"

"Working a job," He replied haughtily, a smirk covering his face. "Not like you would know what that was though. I'm surprised that Musketeer didn't skin you alive,"

He slumped down on the ground, facing Claude with his back against the wall, legs stretched out. His fingers were fidgeting with something, something that the was glinting blue in the moonlight streaming through the patchy roof. He chucked it in the air, caught it, and then rolled it in his hands again. Fred was watching him, in awe of his big brother.

"Ain't you going to ask what it is?" Fabien asked after a few minutes of silence, clearly put out by Claude's lack of interest.

"I don't care Fabien,"

"Well it's a ring. David thinks it's a sapphire, his old man used to-,"

"Really Fabien, I couldn't give two shits. Now will you shut up and let me sleep," Claude rolled over so he couldn't see the boy, and scrunched his eyes tight shut.

"No need to be jealous. You'd of got it if you worked the job I did," Fabien boasted. Claude bit his tongue to stop himself launching into a tirade of expletives.

"Nothing is worth working for a brothel Fabien,"

His back was turned. He heard the shuffling of the straw but his tired brain didn't register it until it was too late. Fabien's foot collided with his back, right into his ribs, and then again. He let out a grunt, trying to roll away, but the boy sat on top, pinning him down so he couldn't move. A fist collided with his face, again, and then again. He could hear Fred cheering in the background. He heard shouting, who was that? Thomas? Yes it was Thomas. Fabien was hauled from him, and dragged from the room, screaming obscenities.

His face ached. It wasn't the first time he'd been in a fight, and it probably wouldn't be his last. But it didn't stop him from letting out a whimper as he rolled over. His nose was bleeding, and one eyes was beginning to swell shut already. But in the gloom he spotted Mud, awake again, looking terrified.

"S'alright Mud, I'm fine," He croaked, half telling himself.

And with a miserable groan, he shut his eyes, and willed himself to sleep.

* * *

Athos had awoken with a hangover, as was usual. It didn't stop him feeling any less miserable however, and he found himself almost wishing that thief had stolen his money yesterday. At least he wouldn't have been able to spend it on booze. Therefore, he was not in the best of moods when he arrived at the Musketeer garrison that morning (although Porthos would argue that he wasn't any different than usual). Treville calling him and his friends into his office was the last thing he needed. But that was exactly what had happened.

"Edelmiro Baros. A Spanish envoy who arrived in Paris yesterday, and now he's been found dead in the street," Treville told them grimly. "When word of his death reaches Spain, which it will, it could result in all out war,"

"Who found him?" D'Artagnan asked.

"One of the girls from the brothel he'd just visited heard him shout. She saw a group of boys running away, street urchins most likely. They took whatever money he had left on him, as well as a ring. A great big thing the girl he'd been with says, hard to miss,"

He lent forward on the desk. His face was grave, brow furrowed.

"Find who did this. As quickly as possible. And we might avoid an all out war with Spain,"

The mission had left a heavy weight on all of them. The seriousness of the situation was suffocating, and so they took to the streets immediately. Street urchins Treville had said. Athos knew exactly where to look.

The market was once again fairly busy. They split up, taking a corner of the small square each. The three musketeers had left the blue cloaks behind this time, making it easier to blend in with the crowds. They milled around, pretending to look at stalls while they watched for any sign of pick pockets. It wasn't long before Aramis spotted someone who looked a little familiar.

Claude had woken up late in the morning, feeling sore all over. His eye was still swollen shut, and his lip felt puffy. He was pretty sure his nose was broken too. So when he'd taken a stroll by himself into the center of Paris, the last thing he wanted to see was one of those musketeers for yesterday. It was one of the grinning ones, a slender man, with neat facial hair and a charming smile. No doubt a hit with the ladies. By the time Claude spotted him, he was already nodding his head towards the boy. The others were approaching from all angles.

He tried to run. He tried to get out. But he was surrounded. 'Never return to the scene of your last job' Thomas had always told him. And now look what was happening. There was a branding iron with his name on it, no doubt about that. The panic was rising in his throat, but he fought to keep calm. He felt like an animal caught in a trap. He spun around on the spot. The three musketeers were ahead of him, and to the sides. With one last ditch attempt, he tried to make a run for it, and was stopped dead by another body. Their young friend. He tilted his head to one side, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Going somewhere?"

A hand thumped heavily onto his shoulder from behind. He winced as it sent a wave through his sore ribs. The hand gripped harder, and he found himself being dragged from the market, into one of the quieter streets nearby. Once there, they surrounded him. He took a step back, heels hitting the wall behind. No where to run. Why hadn't they taken him directly for punishment. Oh lord, were they going to beat him first?

"Just make it quick," He muttered shutting his good eye in a grimace.

"Make what quick?" Came a deep voice he hadn't heard before. He opened his eye to a squint. It was the tallest man, the one wearing a piece of colourful cloth covering his hair.

"You...you were about to beat me...weren't you?"

The handsome one gave a quick laugh. "Do you want us to?"

He was quickly interrupted by none other than yesterday's target. "I'm not in the habit of assaulting children off the street,"

"I'm not a child!" Claude spat back indignantly.

"Yes, yes, we're sure you're very mature for your age," Aramis, for of course, the handsome one was Aramis, chuckled.

"I'm 22!" Claude thundered.

There was a moments pause as his deceleration hung in the air. And then Porthos erupted in a gale of thunderous laughter. Aramis was laughing, much quieter of course. Athos and D'Artagnan exchanged raised eyebrows.

"You can't be 22, there's not one hair on your chin boy," Porthos managed to splutter, having finally gained control of his laughter.

A deep red glow seemed to erupt from Claude's neck, spreading onto his face. His blush was fierce and hot. It only fueled his temper.

"When you're done laughing, maybe you'd like to tell my why you've grabbed me?"

"The boys that were with you yesterday. Where are they?" Athos asked.

"I'm not just going to tell you am I?" Claude hissed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. It was amazing the bravado he could muster when the threat of a beating was removed.

"A man is dead. Killed most likely by boys from the street,"

"Not my boys. We don't do that. We just pick pockets. Harmless stuff to scrape together enough coin for some food,"

"You'd do it for the right price though," Porthos muttered darkly. They were all deadly serious now. The tension hung in the air like a gathering storm.

"Look, I don't know nothing about no dead guy!" Claude shouted.

"What about your friends," D'Artagnan asked. "Have any of them been acting odd? Maybe disappearing by themselves or bringing home odd trinkets,"

Claude's breath stuck in his throat. He hoped that the look of recognition that passed on his face had not been an obvious one. He quickly looked down, pretending to think, shaking his head. He missed the narrowing of Athos' eyes.

"No, I can't think of anything. Honestly, there are thousands of children living on the streets, it could have been anyone!"

His plea seemed to work. The men sighed, looking at each other, before relaxing, taking a step back, giving Claude an escape route. He looked at them, confused, mouth open.

"Right. Run along then," Aramis said, motioning for the boy to go with his hand. Claude didn't move.

"Are...are you not...arresting me?"

"Why? Have you done something worthy or arresting?" D'Artagnan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Claude looked at Athos. "I...tried to cut your purse,"

"Tried. You were not successful. A very important distinction in my book,"

Was that...was that a small smile curling on the musketeers lips? Surely not?! Claude stared at him for another few seconds, trying to figure out if it was a trick or not. When none of the men moved, he made a dash for it, out between them. His arm was grabbed on the way, and he came to a juddering halt, fear growing in his belly again. It was trick, a cruel, cruel trick after all.

"Oh and before you go...whoever gave you that black eye. I would return the favour if I were you," Athos muttered, before letting go of his arm.

The boy was clear of the street in a matter of seconds.

* * *

Fabien did not return to the house that night. He'd left in the morning with Fred and Gaspard on the daily rounds, heading towards Notre Dame where the crowds would be plentiful. Only the two younger boys returned, panicked, and scared.

Fred had been crying a lot. It was difficult for them to get much out of him, but what they did did not sound good. They had spread out in the crowd, as was usual, following a target each. Fred had lost sight of his older brother during this time, and Fabien had never appeared at the rendezvous point they'd agreed on earlier should they get separated. They'd searched the area for hours, but there was no sign. Well, there was one. Fred had found Fabien's ring on the steps of Notre Dame.

Fred's sobs had subsided to tearful sniffles. Thomas sat solemnly, going over everything they had heard. A disappearing boy was not a new occurrence. It didn't make it any easier however. Taking advantage of the moment of silence, Claude decided to broach the subject of the ring.

"Fred...where did Fabien get his ring?"

The boy sniffled. "He got it from the man,"

Thomas sat up straight. "What man? Who gave it to him Fred?"

"He didn't give it to him, he took it," Fred wiped his nose of the rough material of his sleeve. "He took it when he died,"

A deep, firmly rooted sickness had taken seat in the pit of Claude's stomach. He felt like he wanted to vomit and scream at the same time. This couldn't be happening, this was just crazy. Why, oh why had he tried to steal from that Musketeer? Things just seemed to be going from bad to worse.

"Fabien mentioned a job. Who gave him the job Fred?"

Fred began to cry again. Big fat tears that plopped down his cheeks. "I didn't like the men, they were angry all the time. But they gave Fabien coins, lots of them. More than a full days work. He wouldn't listen, I asked him not to, honest! Am I in trouble?"

Thomas ushered the boy away to sleep before returning to Claude. There was a look in his eyes that Claude hadn't seen since they were both younger than Fred. And that look was fear. The sickness grew.

"That man Fabien killed. The Musketeers are investigating this. He was someone big Thomas, this is way out of our control. What are we going to do?"

"We're not going to do anything," He cut Claude off, face stern. "You stay away from the market, we don't need those blue cloaks poking their nose in where it's not wanted!"

He started pacing the room. It was obvious to Claude, who after years of living on the streets with him knew Claude better than he'd known his own mother, God rest her soul, that he was about to launch into a tirade in 3...2...1...

"I mean for God's sake Claude! First you try and rob one of them, and then you back there? Are you a complete idiot? You're lucky they didn't drag you away to the branding iron! Or worse!"

Claude had gone to sleep feeling thoroughly confused. On one hand, Thomas was right. On the other, he had a horrifying feeling that this ordeal was not over.

He was right.

Walking around the city the next day he began to catch snippets of gossip. The boy found on Notre Dame steps. His slit throat and bruised body. By noon, Claude had made his decision. He started off in the direction of the Musketeers' garrison.

* * *

**Wow that was long! There's a clue in there. I wonder if anyone will get it...**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Run Boy Run

There was a crowd around Notre Dame, this sort of thing always brought people in droves, driven by some sort of sick fascination. They stood watching like crows, bustling around, a low murmur in the air as they discussed the body under their breaths, ready to move closer at the first chance they could. Not that they would be getting any nearer with Porthos and Aramis keeping watch. Still, he could do without the audience.

Athos stooped down on the steps. The small pool of blood under the boy suggested he'd been killed elsewhere and dumped. As a message most likely, but a message to who? The clothes he was wearing were not much more than rags, and carried a stench that made him wrinkle his nose a little. It was the smell of the unwashed and the destitute. And it was a sobering one. Athos reached a gloved hand out and gently turned the head of the boy so that it was facing him. With a sigh, he looked down at his feet, and then rose. The others approached, looking grim.

"It's one of the boys from the market," He confirmed.

Porthos gave a disgusted grunt, while the others shook their heads despondently. Street kids wound up dead all the time. It didn't make it any more pleasant however.

"The cut-purse we spoke to yesterday. He knew something. He didn't cover up his reaction very well at all," Aramis pointed out, and Athos nodded a reply.

"He's involved somehow. We return to the garrison, make our report and then head back out to track him down,"

"Somehow I get the feeling he'll be long gone by now," D'Artagnan sighed.

He couldn't be more wrong.

Claude had stood outside of the Musketeers garrison for at least half an hour before he had worked up the courage to head into the courtyard. There were a few men milling about, going about their business. A group were practicing their sword fighting skills in the corner, and others were sitting around the tables, eating and laughing. Claude looked around desperately, but he couldn't see his purse-cutting target, or the men who had been with him. After keeping to the edge of the courtyard, his nerves finally got the better of him, and he chickened out, turning to leave as quickly as possible. A tall, broad figure blocked his way.

"You lad. What do you think you're doing?" It was a musketeer, fairly young, and extremely full of himself. Claude had a feeling this was not going to go well.

"I'm looking for someone," He announced, drawing himself up to his full, short height. He only came up to the man's shoulder.

"Aww looking for your papa?" The man laughed. A few other's who had joined him joined in.

Claude scowled back and tried to side step him. The man stopped him.

"Oi, don't be like that, we were just jesting boy,"

"Don't call me boy!" Claude bristled.

"Well what's your name then?"

"None of your business,"

The men chuckled again, some of them putting on mock looks of shock. The musketeer tutted.

"Really, a boy your age should show some respect," He paused for a second, looking thoughtful. "You know, come to think of it, we're looking for some street urchins for a very serious crime. You wouldn't be here to hand yourself in would you?"

Claude began to get flustered. He stuttered, trying to think of a response, painfully aware that the men were now quietly watching his reaction. He tried to side step him again, but the man put an arm out, stopping him. Claude scratched the back of his head, starting to walk backwards.

"Alucard!" Came a voice from the front of the courtyard. "What's going on here?"

The young musketeer straightened up, all jest gone from his face, replaced with a kind of thirst, eager to prove himself. He grabbed Claude by the arm, pulling him forward, looking important.

"Just dealing with this time waster Athos. Nothing I can't handle,"

Claude made eye contact with the older man, feeling a sense of relief that he would have been ashamed to admit. The panic he'd been feeling since the night before, the sickness in his stomach that hadn't left, that had been growing, subsided slightly. The man nodded to him, a small, sharp nod, easy to miss. And then his attention returned to the man holding Claude.

"He's here to see us. Leave him be,"

Claude wrenched himself from Alucard's grip, brushing himself down and giving him fake smile. "Thanks for your help sir,"

The men moved off, leaving them be, and Claude moved towards the others cautiously. The first thing he noticed was now solemn they all looked. They weren't jovial as they had been before. No, in fact, they all looked like they were carrying some great weight. Bad news. Claude was pretty sure he knew what it was.

The leader, who he now knew was called Athos, nodded his head towards the stairs, and they headed up to the doors above the courtyard. After a brisk knock to one of them, they entered, and Claude found himself in a small office with another musketeer. This man was a older gent, his leather jerkin was thicker, and his mustache finely sculpted. He could only be one man, the famous Captain Treville, leader of the Musketeers. He looked at the boy, an eyebrow raised in question.

"I suppose there's a decent explanation for why you've brought this young man with you?"

"The boy on the steps. It is as we suspected. Once of the street orphans that we spotted in the market place the other day," Athos explained.

"And the boy-,"

"Fabien," Claude interrupted Treville, and wilted under his stern gaze. "His name was Fabien,"

"This Fabien...do we have any proof he's out murderer?" Treville continued after a brief pause.

"There was no ring on him," Aramis explained.

Treville, sighing, sat down at his desk, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked tired, worried.

"I might be able to help with that," Claude piped up. The other's looked at him expectantly. "Fabien's brother Fred has a ring. A great big thing, sapphire we think. He found it when Fabien went missing,"

"What do you mean he went missing? Start at the beginning," urged D'Artagnan .

"When I got back the night I...first bumped into you-" He looked at Athos nervously, but the man didn't interrupt so he continued. "Fabien had this ring. He said he got it for doing a job. And then he gave me this so I didn't find out anymore," He motioned to his face. "The next day, he went out with his brother and another boy. They lost him in the crowd but found his ring on the ground. His brother Fred said that they'd been approached by some men the day before,"

Claude was hesitating now. He remembered what Thomas had said the night before, about staying away from the musketeers. Would he get in trouble? Would Fred. They were all listening intently, and a hot, red burning was growing in his cheeks. He floundered.

"Go on," Athos instructed. Claude swallowed hard.

"Fred- Fred said Fabien killed a man. For a lot of coin and-and he took the ring. I don't think he was supposed to though,"

"The ring is evidence. Who ever put him up to it will be covering their tracks," Porthos ventured.

"So Fred and the other's, they're in danger, they'll come for them?"

"It's very unlikely. Fabien was their man...or boy so to speak. He's out of the picture now,"

"But the ring-"

"For all they know, the boy sold it before they killed him. He'd get a good price for something like that," Treville was dismissive, waving at Claude, as if the matter was over. "Thank you for your help. Now if you would excuse us we have matters to discuss-"

"That's it?!"

"If it's a reward you're after, you're lucky we're not-"

"I don't want a reward!" Claude thundered. "Why do you think I'm here? I want some assurance that the boys are safe! They're out there by themselves some of them as young as four or five!"

"Look, we appreciate the help, but there are more pressing issues at hand," Aramis sounded reluctant, looked unsure. The others were exchanging awkward looks.

"Oh of course," Claude scoffed. "More important things. Because nobody has cared about them before, why start now!?"

He stormed from the room, slamming the wooden door behind him and rushed down the steps, nearly missing the bottom one and going his length. Why had he come here? What good had it done? He'd just helped a bunch of arrogant twats who were only bothered if it concerned the nobility of Paris. Why should they care about the poor? The Kings Men. Claude spat onto the ground in disgust. The King didn't care, why would they?

"A moment if you please," called Athos from the top of the stairs. Claude looked over his shoulder and kept walking.

"I don't know anything else, I told you everything,"

The musketeer quickly descended, following the boy across the courtyard.

"We'll need to know where you and the boys are situated," He paused. "Should we need to talk to this Fred character,"

Claude stopped. Why was he...was he asking because...

"An old house. A ruin. Out the north road, on the outskirts. Half the roof is gone, you can't miss it. Will you...will you be out tonight?"

"We'll be out when we can,"

"But-"

"I said when we can boy," Athos said firmly, turning to leave.

"Don't call me boy," retorted Claude.

The musketeer sighed, turning back to him. "Then perhaps you can provide a name?"

"...Claude,"

Athos gave a nod, raising his great, feather hat politely, and then turned, heading up the stairs once more.

Feeling thoroughly confused, Claude left to journey home.

He had a great amount to time to think on the walk back. To think about what he was going to say to Thomas, about whether or not the boys were safe, about the motives behind Athos' request for their location. One thing was sure, no matter what they had said, he still had a terrible feeling about the last few days events. He felt, no he knew deep down that things were not over. And he had to do something about it. He couldn't live like this anymore.

The house was a buzz of talk when he returned. It was a cold night, but it was warm inside from the press of bodies. There were more than usual, some of the boys had brought friends back with them, and they were all sat around, eyes alive with fear and excitement as they discussed the rumors in town. Claude found Thomas standing in the corner of the back room, listening to the others with a look of concern etched on his face. He gave a start when Claude walked in.

"There you are, I was beginning to get worried. Are they true Claude? The rumors?"

Claude nodded, watching Thomas' face fall at the news. The sick feeling was back.

"Thomas, we need to leave,"

"Why? Claude what's going on?"

"These men Fabien was working for. I think they're going to come for the rest of us. The musketeers-"

"The musketeers? What about them?" His face clouded with anger as the realisation hit. "Claude what the hell, I told you not to go near them! Of course we need to leave now, they'll come to clear us out!"

"No Thomas listen-"

"No you listen Claude! You've put everyone in danger, you realise that right?" He pushed past his younger friend. "We leave in the morning. It's too dark and cold to find somewhere else now,"

Claude was left by himself, feeling incredibly small. With a resigned sigh, he found a free piece of straw, and lay down. But sleep did not come easily, even when Thomas shouted at the rest of them to quiet down and get some sleep.

Smoke. There was smoke and screaming. And a loud, crackling roar. Claude's lungs were burning as he took a deep breath of smoke and then coughed it back out again, scrambling up from the straw pile on the floor. There were people around him, running for the entrance of the house. His eyes were burning in the hazy air, and a hot, no blistering heat was approaching to his left. The room was filled with a deep, red glow.

He realised there was a pair of arms clutching at him, and he looked down to find a crying Mud clinging to him, choking on the hot air. He grabbed the boy tightly, and hauled him from the room. The door was ahead, and he could see figures running around outside. There was someone on the frosty ground at the door, but he couldn't make out who it was, or why they were lying there. He dived towards the door with Mud, hearing cries behind him. The door to the other room was blocked by a burning roof timber, one of the few remaining ones in the house. There were desperate faces behind it. He stooped down, looking right into Mud's face.

"Get out Mud, I'll be right behind you, trust me. Go, GO!"

He shoved the boy towards the door, and then turned to the fallen beam. Taking a deep breath, he lunged onto his stomach, sliding beneath the burning wood. His ragged left sleeve caught fire on the way through but he couldn't do anything about it. The fire was blisteringly close to his face, and he could feel his hair singing and catching alight. After a few agonizingly slow seconds, he was through, hitting his arm in a panic to put the flames out. He screamed in pain as his forearm, and the hand hitting it burnt, gritting his teeth before making sure his hair was out as well. The room he was not in was not much better, the straw on the floor had already caught alight. But there was a window at the back, and he shoved the boys towards it.

"No NO!" They started shouting. "The men, there are men! They shot Gaspard when he crawled out!"

Sure enough, Claude could see movement outside. The screaming was still going on, but now he realise it was outside of the house, over the roar of the flames. There was a thundering crack, and more of the roof gave way, blocking the door completely.

"It's the window or we burn!" He shouted, shoving the boys once again. "Get out and run! As quickly as you can,"

They looked back at the room, the flames creeping closer, and reluctantly started climbing through the window. One, two, three, four, they were all through, leaving Claude alone inside. Without another look back, he clambered through himself, and landed directly onto the cold ground outside. The air was full of soot, and the flames were still deafeningly loud. But not he could see other figures, wearing hooded cloaks. They carried pistols and swords. The boys that had left before him were running, as fast as they could towards the tree line behind the house. As they neared it, more men appeared, plunging their swords into the boy's chests. Claude stifled the horrified cry in his throat, picking himself off of the ground, and running around to the front of the house.

It was hear that he found Mud's body, lying not far from the door that he had sent him out. There were two stab wounds, one in his stomach, a second through the heart. His brown eyes were staring up at the sky, the life had left them.

"Oh God," Claude dropped to the ground beside him. "No Mud, no I'm sorry, oh God, please no-" His garbling was cut short by the feeling of cold metal pricking through the material on his back, right between the shoulder blades.

"Don't worry boy. You'll join him," came a gruff voice.

He shut his eyes, ready for the pain. Instead came a explosive bang, a pistol firing, followed by the thud of a body dropping behind him. His eyes flew open, stinging for a second in the bitter air. It took him a few seconds to register the figure in front of him.

"Run boy," Athos commanded. "Claude, RUN!"

Claude ran.


	4. The Things Lost to the Flames

Treville had kept them busy for most of the afternoon and evening, and by the time they had managed to finally head out, the musketeers were on edge. The boy's heart-felt pleas kept playing over and over in their heads. The group had been quiet, much quieter than usual in fact, the normal chit-chat having died off hours before. Porthos seemed to be taking it particularly hard, Athos had reason to believe that inside his friend's tough exterior, the boy's words had stung. After all, Porthos had been one of them earlier in life. He knew the hardships those boys would be facing.

They chose to walk out to the house on the edge of town, hoping that their presence would be spotted less easily if they weren't on horse back. When they reached the long north road, the wind brought the scent of burning with it, acrid, stinging. There was a fire up ahead, a large one. The closer they got, the stronger the smell grew. A hot, orange glow was appearing in the distance, and a the sound of the crackling, roaring flames began to reach their ears. The four men exchanged a glance before sprinting the remaining distance.

It was anarchy. Complete and all encompassing chaos. Gunshots were echoing over the sound of the flames, and there were boys screaming, choking, pulling themselves from the burning building only to be shot or run through with a blade. The musketeers split off, drawing their swords and pistols and entering the fray. It was hard to keep track of each other in the madness. The heat of the flames was ever present, and it was difficult to tell the older boys from the attacking men. Porthos and Aramis brought down two men apiece, and D'Artagnan was engaged in a challenging duel with a cloaked man when Athos spotted the boy, covered in soot, crumbling over the body of his friend. And the man, the man behind him, approaching with a cocky swagger. That monster was enjoying this.

The boy had ran, back towards the center of Paris. And that had left them to defend those who were remaining, but it became apparent that their numbers were few. It was hard to say if any boys had made it into the tree line, although the sheer number of armed men made it seem unlikely. The attackers had started to disappear as quickly as they had arrived, as soon as they realised that they had an opposition that did not consist of unarmed children. The musketeers were soon left alone, among the bodies of the fallen.

"Bunch of sick bastards, the lot of them!" Porthos spat on the ground at his feet. "You know one of them was laughing? Laughing while he shot the boys trying to get out?"

"I hope you gutted him," Aramis replied bitterly.

"Oh I assure you, I did,"

"Did anyone see our young friend?" D'Artagnan asked, still slightly breathless from his duel. His opponent lay vanquished not far to their left.

"I sincerely hope we're not about to find him among the dead," groaned Aramis.

Athos shook his head. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. "He's safe. I made sure of it,"

Porthos gave him an almighty clap on the shoulder, before they reluctantly started to search the dead. The residents of nearby houses had awoken with the noise, and having waited until the gunshots had stopped, were not appearing in small groups. Aramis approached them, assuring them that the danger had passed, and they began to fetch buckets of water to put the roaring fire out. A bell began to ring somewhere nearby, a call for more help no doubt. A light rain had started, in fact it was sleet, and the flames were beginning to retreat slightly. The ruined house was now a complete shell.

The total number of dead totaled in the 30s. Three quarters of those were children. Children with no families, no parents to mourn them, to bury them. They'd be placed in an unmarked, mass grave. They would be forgotten. But not by those four men. That night would stay in their memories for many years to come.

Athos approached the bodies where he'd last seen Claude. He knelt at the dead boy first, and with a sickening jolt he realised it was the small child who had followed him in the market. How old was he? Four? Five? And there he lay, cooling on the ground, bleeding into the earth below. A wasted life. Athos reached out to him, closing the lifeless staring eyes, and then turned his attention to the man.

There was nothing remarkable about him. He was no doubt, some hired thug, as were the other's they had inspected. No distinguishing features, or clothes. Just plain brown and black leather. He was about to stand when a glint caught his eye. Something on the man's hand was reflecting in the light of the dying fire. On his finger, he wore a great, blue ring. The ring. Athos slipped it off his dirty finger, and placed it in a pouch on his belt for safe keeping. He'd think about the ring later. There were more pressing matters at hand. They had a young man to find.

Claude ran until he could longer do so for coughing. His lungs were burning, and his throat felt raw as he choked and wheezed down the street. Where was he supposed to go now? No home, no friends. Growing up on the streets had been hell, but as he'd gotten older, he felt like he'd had a purpose in life. And that purpose was to help Thomas look after the younger boys. They were gone now. He had no purpose. And every time he closed his eyes he saw Mud's corpse lying on the ground at his feet.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap, tears finally escaping his eyes and scoring tracks through the soot on his face. Sleet was beginning to fall in waves, cold and icy, a sudden chill compared to the blistering heat of the flames. It provided a blessed relief to his burnt arm, but he began to shiver as it soaked into his ragged, fire bitten clothes. Claude worked up the courage to look at his arm. It didn't look quite as bad as if felt, but was a nasty, redish colour. Blisters were starting to form across the surface, painful, protruding from the damaged skin. His hand wasn't as bad, with a little redness. It still stung to touch however.

Claude gave a start as a bell began to ring in the distance, back towards the house. What did that mean? He was suddenly aware of how exposed he was, sitting on the dirty cobble street. He picked himself of the ground, ignoring his protesting body, and set off along the street once more. After ten minutes of walking, he found himself in the market square. It was empty now, apart from a few carts left by the vendors. He pushed away the memories of Mud that this place brought with them, and approached one of the carts. There was nothing in it, the vendors would take their wares with them at night, and the wood was soaked and rotting. It provided some protection from the weather and watchful eyes however, so he crawled underneath, pulling his legs up under his chin and curled into a tight ball.

His body was tired. Exhausted even. He longed to sleep, but at the same time, the thought repulsed him. Closing his eyes left him with images of the fire and the bodies burnt into his mind. His fingers and toes were beginning to go numb with the cold. Claude had the sudden thought that he might not survive the night in this weather. A part of him admitted that it was probably for the best. At least it would be painless, in his sleep, unlike his brothers.

Voices jolted him out of his stupor. Male voices, talking quietly, coming along the North road. He froze, fear building inside him, rising from his chest and into his throat. The cart suddenly didn't seem like great cover. He tried to curl into a tighter ball, but his feet scuffed on the ground, making a noise in the dirt, so he stopped, staying as still as possible. Four cloaked figures entered the square.

It was dark, and he couldn't see their faces, or tell the colour of their clothes, but the hats gave it away. They paused in the center of the square, looking around carefully. Claude was still frozen. Would they see him here, in the gloom, under the cart? Should he shout? Should he stay hidden. One of the men said something, and he heard a murmur of replies, and they began to move off again.

"W-Wait!" His voice caught in his sore throat. "Wait!"

The figures spun around as he crawled out from under the cart. His burnt arm scraped across the dirt and he hissed in pain, scraping his knees on the cobbles through his thin breeches.

"Claude! Are you alright?" D'Artagnan was the first to recover from the shock of his sudden appearance.

"Christ lad!" Aramis began to quickly remove his cloak. "You look frozen half to death!"

Claude gratefully accepted the Musketeers thick cloak, which seemed to dwarf him completely. It was still warm from it's previous owner, and he felt some feeling returning into his cold limbs.

"T-Thank you," He shivered, feeling suddenly awkward. What now?

"Are you injured?" Athos asked, breaking the silence.

"Uh...my arm. My arm's burnt, I don't know how bad," He held out the blistering skin. Aramis inspected it gently.

"You've been fairly lucky. But it's going to need cleaned, the wound is dirty,"

"We need to get you inside anyway. D'Artagnan, do you think Madame Bonacieux would mind receiving us at this hour?" Athos asked.

"Her husband might. But she won't turn away someone in need. She'll take us,"

"Then we make for her lodgings straight away. Come,"

Much to D'Artagnan's relief, Monsieur Bonacieux had left earlier that day on business, and would not be back for a few days. His wife however was not pleased that he was waking her at such an hour, and launched into a tirade, having not spotted the smaller figure that was currently hiding behind Porthos.

"Really D'Artagnan, I do not mind you coming and going at whatever hour in the night seems reasonable to you, but my house is not a tavern that you and your friends can spend a drunken evening in! If my husband were here, what do you think he would say to -" She stopped, finally spotting Claude who had been ushered into view by an amused Porthos. "Oh!"

"Madame Bonacieux, we must apologise for the intrusion, but our young friend is in need of your hospitality," Athos explained, his voice polite and measured as always.

Claude felt extremely uncomfortable under the groups stares. The young woman in front of them stood with her mouth agape for a few more seconds before recovering. She quickly resumed her tirade, but it was no longer directed at her lodger.

"Athos, what on earth have you been dragging this poor boy through! He's half starved! Sit down you poor thing, get a warm at the fire. Honestly, using children to do your dirty work, is that what you call honorable-"

"I'm- I'm not a child," Claude cut in. "And Athos saved my life," He said simply. What else was there to tell?

He glanced over at the ever impassive musketeer, and was slightly surprised to see some form of emotion cross his face. What was that? Shock? The idea seemed to amuse him suddenly, in fact, the whole situation did all of a sudden. Here he was, standing in the home of this woman, listening to her lecture these formidable soldiers. He gave a small chuckle. And then he remembered the nights events and his smile slid from his face. Without another word, he took the seat that Madame Bonacieux was offering him.

He missed the look she was giving the others. It said an explanation please, and it would not be argued with. The men took their own seats around the table. Claude was vaguely aware of them talking, explaining in hushed tones about the fire, the cloaked men. He felt suddenly sick, and took a deep gulp of air, trying to keep it down. He was panicking, sucking breathes in greedily, his heart pounding. He was brought back to earth with a jolt when he realised there was someone in front of him, talking.

"Sorry?" He asked, his voice squeaking embarrassingly high. The others exchanged a look.

"I'm going to clean your burn," Aramis repeated. It might be a bit painful, but I'll do my best to be gentle,"

"Aramis has a magic touch when it comes to medicine," Porthos reassured. "You should see his needle work,"

"As neat as the Queen's seamstress," Aramis jested. He was wringing out a damp cloth in a basin. Where had that come from?

Claude sucked in a breath through his teeth as Aramis placed the damp cloth on his arm. It stung like new again, and he had to grind his teeth together in an attempt to stop the unshed tears developing in his eyes from falling. He didn't want to cry in front of these people. He decided to think of something else. Instead, he chose a topic which was equally painful.

"Did- did anyone else make it out?"

The men exchanged unsure glances. D'Artagnan was the first to reply. "We don't know. There were a lot of bodies. A few might have made it to the trees, but there was no way for us to tell,"

"What about Thomas? He would have looked much older than the others, taller,"

The uncomfortable looks he received in return were answer enough. He decided that the pain of his arm was bearable after all, and returned to watching Aramis work. But there was a thought growing in his mind, and it was suddenly all consuming. It filled him with rage, made his heart beat excruciatingly fast. He had to speak his mind, had to say it. It burst out of him in a strangled shout.

"If you'd came when I asked, this wouldn't have happened!"

"You have no way of know-" Aramis tried to sooth his temper, placing the damp cloth down and beginning to wrap the wound with a clean cloth.

"No I'm right and you know it!" He stood up, brushing Aramis off. "I told you it wasn't over, but you sent me away!"

The cloth on his arm was trailing, and he grabbed, it, wrapping it around his forearm briskly, ignoring, no, feeding on the pain it caused. Aramis opened his mouth to protest but thought better off it. The boy's attention was focused squarely on Athos.

"They're dead now! They're all dead, and if you'd just came when I said-" He cut himself off, his voice breaking once more. His hands reached up to his hair, grabbing it in great clumps, pulling while he let out a painful whine that cut right through everyone in the room. Athos stood, his chair scraping across the floor, he reached out to grab the boys wrists.

"Just calm down-"

"DON'T TOUCH ME! IT'S YOUR FAULT! IT'S ALL YOU FAULT!"

He started pounding his clenched firsts off of the taller mans chest, but there was no force behind them and they bounced off. The flood gates had opened and he began to weep, no sob uncontrollably, finally giving in to the man's reaching hands, and folding against his chest. Athos stood for a second, looking extremely uncomfortable with the boy's sudden display of emotion, and then, shocking everyone else in the room, he wrapped his arms around Claude's shoulders and held him.

"Blimey..." Porthos muttered, exchanging a look with Aramis, who looked equally flabbergasted.

"Madame Bonacieux," Athos said quietly. "Would you be so kind as to prepare a hot bath for the young garcon,"

Constance nodded, looking visibly moved by the situation. I'll prepare it in D'Artagnan's room. He can sleep in his bed after, if that's alright-"

"Of course, of course," her lodger nodded, and she hurried from the room.

Claude broke free from Athos' grasp, suddenly feeling, and looking, extremely awkward after his outburst. He found he couldn't look any of them in the eye, and shuffled his feet on the floor. He could hear the mistress of the house, boiling water and preparing the spare room. He returned to his seat, and allowed Aramis to tie his bandage properly, in silence this time.

It took a while for his bath to be ready, but when it was, he couldn't help but feel an odd sense of excitement. The last time he had had a bath was before his mother had died, and the water had been shockingly cold. The idea of being immersed in warm water was a completely new one to him. It was something that he'd never thought he would experience in his life.

He left the men in the main room, and entered the guest room. It was of a modest size, with a fairly large bed, a bed that he would be sleeping in! That thought added to his excitement even more, until Constance uttered a sentence that sent a wave of panic through him.

"I'll send one of them in to help you get that shirt off shall I? You'll struggle with your arm like that,"

"No-no you can't!" He blurted out. The woman looked slightly taken aback. "I mean, no thank you, I'm sure I'll manage,"

She gave a small smile, and then motioned to the chest at the foot of the bed. "There are some clean shirts and breeches in there. Help yourself when you're done,"

"Thank you Madame," He repeated again. "For everything,"

With another smile, Constance left him to his bath.

Claude turned and looked at the warm, steaming water. He could feel his heart begin to beat quicker, and decided to waste no time in getting in. He peeled off his dirty breeches first, shivering slightly when his bare skin touched the air. His shirt came next, with a little difficulty, and he winced at the pain in his arm. Claude looked down at his chest, inspecting the dirty rag that was bound around it, and considering the best was to proceed. He fumbled at the poorly tied knot, and then pulled, slowly unwrapping the rag round and around, until it came off completely, exposing the small breasts that had laid bound underneath.

Claudette, for that was her real name, loathed to admit as she was, dipped a toe into the hot water, testing it. She gasped as it stung her freezing feet, before taking a deep breath, and plunging her whole foot in, followed by the other, and then lowered herself into the tub with a satisfied groan. She'd never felt anything like this before! The warmth enveloped her, like one massive blanket. Taking care not to wet her bandages (she was fairly certain Aramis would not be impressed), Claude lay back in the water and closed her eyes. Allowing herself a few minutes of pleasure, before the grief would surely take hold once more.


	5. Justice or Stupidity

Claude awoke to the sound of a light knocking on the bedroom door. She was tangled in the sheets, face down, and still groggy. Everything ached, but there was a thudding, throbbing pain coming from her arm that was hard to ignore. The light rapping continued, and she rolled over, blinking in the weak light that was coming through the window.

Last night seemed like a strange nightmare. And by God, she'd had plenty of them in her sleep. Mud was always there, two wounds bleeding on his chest, following her. Her senses were assaulted, with screams and gunshots, and the smell of burning. She'd searched the bodies on the ground, but all of them had been Mud. And then a shadow would fall over her, a sword tip would be placed between the shoulder blades, certain death was near and then...then she would wake up, drenched in sweat, only to fall into another fitful sleep.

Another knock, and someone calling her name.

"C'min," She yawned finally, and the door opened to reveal Aramis on the other side, carrying a leather jerkin and a pair of boots under one arm, and a bowl in the other.

"Ah, sleeping beauty awakes," He jested lightly. "I need to change the dressing on your burn,"

As the musketeer entered the room, Claude had two sudden and painful realisations. First, she hadn't bound her chest before slipping the fresh linen shirt on after her bath last night, and second, she'd also neglected to pull on the new breeches, which were still lying on chair beside the bed where she'd left them. It had seemed like a good idea last night when she'd crawled under the cool sheets into bed, but now...well now it might make things a bit awkward to say the least. She nervously pulled the covers up further towards her chin.

Aramis sat the boots and jerkin chest at the end of the bed, before moving the discarded breeches and sitting down on the wooden chair, sitting the bowl on the small wooden table beside it. "The boots might be a little large, I had to make a guess. But the jerkin is an old one worn but one of the new recruits. He's outgrown it now of course, but it should fit fairly well,"

"Thank you Monsieur," Claude held her arm out and watched as be began to unravel the bandage.

"Please, call me Aramis,"

Claude had decided that she liked Aramis. She got the feeling he could be fairly cocky, but he was gentle, and kind at heart. He didn't even complain when the bandage was removed to reveal that some of the blisters had burst, leaving a sticky yellow gunge on the skin. He just cleaned the wound once more, and wound a new piece of cloth around. Yes, she did like him. He reminded her a lot of Thomas. And Thomas had been like a brother to her.

When Aramis was finished, he left her to change, and she could finally clamber out of the bed. The bath was still full of water, cold now of course, and there was thin layer of grime lying on the top. Claude wrinkled her face in disgust, inspecting the reflection she saw in the grimy water. A boyishly round face stared back at her, still lightly bruised from Fabien's rage. Her nose, she noted with a sigh, had a slightly squint quality to it now, no doubt broken. Her hair however looked cleaner than it had in...years, pulled back in a tight pony tail at the back, with a few trailing strands hanging into her eyes. No wonder every kept calling her boy. It's exactly what she looked like.

With a resigned sigh, she left the side of the bath and collected the breeches from the floor. They were baggy on her, much like the shirt, but warmer than her old, ragged ones. She pulled the boots on over them, finding that Aramis had been correct, they were slightly too big. But they didn't have any holes in the bottom, so it was a damn sight better than the scraps of leather she'd been using for the past...well God knows how long.

The jerkin...well the jerkin was just fantastic. If she'd had one of these out on the streets, her nights would have been much warmer. It was made of a thick, tan leather, with small buttons running its length. A stiff collar poked up, and it buckled at the waist, holding it tight and warm around the middle. The jerkin was long, running past her waist and stopping just before the top of her thigh. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so comfortable.

The smell as Claude opened the bedroom door was amazing. A deep, homely smell of cooking that made her stomach gargle and mouth watered. When was the last time she ate? Too long ago, that's when. Constance was bustling around a massive pot on the stove when she entered the kitchen, while Aramis and Porthos sat at the table, digging into some delicious looking stew. D'Artagnan was sitting at the fire, and there were large bags under his eyes. He looked exhausted, probably, Claude mused, because his bed had been commandeered the night before.

"Claude! Come and get some of this stew before that lot eat it all!" Constance placed a bowl down on the table when she noticed her standing in the doorway, and ladled some of the delicious smelling stew into it, giving Claude a welcoming smile.

The girl took one taste and then began devouring it ravenously. She heard someone chuckling, and looked up to find the others watching.

"Take your time," Porthos commented. "Or you'll be bringing it back up as quickly as your eating it,"

She slowed down a little. But not by much.

"Where's Athos?" Claude was a little ashamed to admit her relief in the musketeer's absence. Things had gotten a little...awkward last night.

"Him and Captain have gone to make a report to the Cardinal," Porthos explained, dipping a massive chunk of crusty fresh bread into his stew.

Claude choked on her mouthful. "The Cardinal? Why?"

The musketeers exchanged a look, clearly deciding whether to tell Claude all of the information. Aramis was first to give into her pleading stare.

"The man Fabien murdered was a Spanish envoy. We're in the midst of trying to stop a war,"

Claude's appetite had disappeared. War? Wow, Fabien had really gone and gotten them into deep shit, hadn't he. No wonder these guys in the cloaks were covering their tracks. His band of orphans had obviously stumbled into something much bigger than some stolen jewelry. Something that had gotten them all killed. She sat her spoon down in the bowl, staring at its contents, and focused on keeping her composure. She'd let it slip last night, but that wouldn't be happening again.

"I'm just going to nip out for some air,"

She pushed the chair back and heard the sound of more than one scraping on the floor. The other's had stood too, but she shook her head.

"No, it's fine-"

They exchanged another look, but sat down again.

"Don't go to far," Aramis told her, and she gave a sharp nod before heading for the door.

It was cold outside, and a thin layer of snow lay on the ground. More flakes were floating down from the white, fluffy, cloud filled sky. The jerkin provided a much needed warmth, but it was still chilly. Claude stuffed her hands under her armpits, and lent against the wall of the house. To the average passerby, it would seem that she was inspecting the ground below her, but her thoughts were far away indeed, on a little burnt out cottage at the other side of Paris.

The sound of boys talking made her look up suddenly. Ahead, walking away down the street, were a group of three young men, having a heated discussion by the sounds of it. The tallest...well the tallest seemed familiar. The head of brown curly hair, the broad shoulders. Could it be? Could Thomas have survived after all? Claude pushed herself off of the wall, and started jogging down the street after them.

"Thomas!" She shouted. "Thomas, hey!"

The boys did not turn. She sped up, slipping slightly on the trodden snow. They turned the corner and she followed, into a busier wider street. The hustle and bustle shook her around, but she pushed through, catching up with the group.

"Thomas I-" She pulled on the young man's arm and he turned around. It wasn't Thomas.

No, now she was close, she realised he was much bigger. His face was covered in the scraggly, curly beard of a young man. He was missing some of his front teeth, and his nose was squint, probably broken multiple times.

"What the hell do you want, you little runt?" He spat, turning around and puffing his chest out. His friends flanked him either side.

"S-sorry I thought you were someone else,"

"Yeah, Thomas? Who's Thomas, your lover?" His friends laughed.

Claude backed up, trying not to trip over her own feet. The man noticed her attempts to leave, he reached out, swatting in her direction with grabbing fingers, but she was already away, running back through the crowd. By the time she reached the side street back to the house, the boys had been left behind. She turned, checking over her shoulder, panting slightly, before walking slap bang into someone coming in the other direction.

Around the same time Claude was waking up, Athos found himself in a meeting with the Cardinal. It wasn't usually an occasion that he enjoyed and today was no different. As was usual, the room was bubbling over with the tension between Treville and his rival, who was pacing around like a giant overgrown bat. His voice was snide as always, and Athos wanted nothing more than to wipe that sneer off of his face. Of course, he showed no inclination of this. The musketeer was a closed book, as always.

"I trust that the culprit has been found?" Richelieu was asking. Treville cleared his throat.

"The murderer, yes. A young boy from the streets. But he was given the task by an unknown source. My men are looking into it,"

"Looking into it? They should be doing a damn site better than that! The boy you mentioned, the survivor. Where is he?"

"He's in a safe place," Athos finally spoke. "The men who killed his friends may well be looking for him,"

The Cardinal began to pace again, hands held tightly behind his back. "I trust I do not need to explain the severity of the situation to you gentlemen. The Spanish will no doubt be sending men as soon as word reaches them, and if the person responsible has not been brought to justice by the time of their arrival, we may well be at war! What leads do you have on these men? Do you have any idea at all who they may be?"

The room echoed with silence. Richelieu signed, and stopped his pacing, coming to a halt in front of them.

"The boy, send him back out onto the streets. If these men want him so bad, then let them have him,"

"You're-" Athos furrowed his brow, processing the information. "You're suggesting we use the boy as bait?"

"I don't see why not," The Cardinal replied. "Draw them out of hiding,"

"He's barely more than a child, we can't send him to his death-"

"You can and you will. You've failed to bring the perpetrator to justice. I fail to see what choice you have," Richelieu snapped back.

Athos felt a deep rage building inside of him, deep, and hot. He looked at Treville, who had been fairly silent during this exchange. The older man looked at him, somewhat reluctantly but nodded. "I'm afraid the Cardinal is right. The life of one cut-purse is not worth all of France,"

And that was that. They'd left the Cardinal shortly after, and before Athos had even opened his mouth to protest, Treville had stopped him. He was having none of it. The musketeer had left his Captain in a foul mood, marching through the streets with his head down, hat covering his face. This wasn't right. Madame Bonacieux had asked last night, since when had they started using children to fight their battles. Alright, so Claude claimed to be 22, but it was obvious that he'd been lying. The lack of a beard was one thing, but his voice made it extremely hard to believe. Athos wasn't even sure if it had broken yet. Yes, he was definitely no man.

The musketeer, swept his blue, pristine dress cloak forward against the chill wind. It was snowing now he noticed. Snowing and freezing, and he was supposed to send some injured young man out onto the streets to fend for himself, once again, with a clear conscious. No, this wasn't right, it wasn't what he called honorable, it was-

Someone slammed into his front, knocking the wind out. He hadn't seen them coming, lost in his bad mood. He stumbled back a step but righted, looking up and finding a very familiar face that he had not expected to see. Claude looked up from her place on the snowy ground (for she had landed slap bang on her arse), a dawning look of horror on her face as she realised who she'd ran into.

"Athos! I'm sorry I wasn't looking-"

"What are you doing out here?" Athos asked, rather gruffly.

Claude scrambled up from the ground, quickly brushing the snow off her new breeches. Her bottom had an uncomfortable damp feeling now, but she ignored it, much more concerned with the man in front of her.

"I needed some fresh air,"

"And you couldn't get that from the doorway? I thought we impressed upon you the fact that you are no doubt, still at risk," Athos' voice was harsh, and Claude was surprised by his sudden anger. Perhaps he was annoyed at her for the outburst last night? She wouldn't blame him.

"I thought I saw someone I knew," was her quiet response.

The frown slipped from Athos' face, and he let out a defeated sigh. There was no point taking his anger out on the boy. It wasn't his fault he'd been born into poverty, into this mess. He began walking again, and Claude followed automatically, hurrying to keep up with the musketeer as to not anger him further. When they reached the house, Porthos was standing outside, looking around. He gave them a wave when he spotted them, and they followed him in.

"Here he is. Went off for a little wander did you?" The big man asked.

Claude gave Athos a nervous look. The musketeer wasn't looking his way however, and took a seat at the table. The others sat down too, and Claude hovered awkwardly at the side, wringing her hands together.

"What did the Cardinal say?" Aramis was the first to talk. Constance had come to stand in the doorway, a look of concern on her face.

Athos took a moment to compose his thoughts. "The Cardinal...wishes the boy to return to the streets,"

"What?!"

"You've got to be kidding me?"

"Is he mad-"

The volley of replies shocked Claude a little. These men had helped her, cared for her wounds, but somehow, the level of their indignation was still surprising. It was quite touching actually, and she wasn't sure how to respond. So she chose to listen quietly as Athos waved for their attention.

"He want's Claude to lure the men out of hiding. And then we strike,"

"So he's basically issuing him a death sentence?" D'Artagnan asked, the disgust evident in his voice.

"It's disgusting," Constance spoke for the first time. Her voice was filled with emotion. "You can't let him do this, he's just a boy,"

Athos lent back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And so I told him. If any of you have any suggestions, I'd appreciate you voicing them,"

The room was silent for a second, but it was broken by another voice, surprisingly firm.

"I want to do it," Claude told them.

The others look at him, shocked into silence. Porthos' mouth had dropped open, an eyebrow raised. Athos had begun to shake his head, but Claude took advantage of their shock and kept going.

"They killed my friends. My family. I'll do whatever it takes to see them dead!"

Athos' voice was firm, urgent. "And you'll receive your justice, but it shouldn't be at the cost of your own life. I'm not willing to send a child in-"

Claude slammed her fists down on the table, leaning forward. "I'm not a child! Stop treating me like one! I've been fighting my own battles since I was six, I don't need anyone to fight them for me now!"

Aramis gave a small chuckle, although not unkindly. "Come now Claude. We know you're lying about your age, there's no point trying to fool us, we're not so easily tricked,"

"Lying?! I'm not lying-,"

"We've been over this. Look at the size of you!" Porthos pointed out. "No beard hair to speak off, your voice hasn't even broken properly,"

"Well..." Claude was stumbling now. "I didn't get much food, and-"

"Porthos was on the street from the age of five, and it's hardly stunted him," Aramis said, smirking at his friend across the table. Porthos rolled his eyes.

"This is just ridiculous, why would I lie? If Thomas were here he'd tell you-"

"Thomas isn't here, he's dead," Athos spoke up bluntly. His statement hit Claude like a slap to the face. "And if we allow you to go through with this plan, you'll may well end up joining him,"

Claude pushed herself from the table, taking a deep breath, and looking at the Musketeer, dead on. "I'd rather die knowing I'd tried to do something , than pretend none of this ever happened. I have nothing now," Her voice shook dangerously. "Nothing. Death is welcome. And if you don't let me do this, I'm walking out of here and doing it on my own. So either help. Or don't,"

Athos held the eye contact for a few minutes longer, before sighing, and looking at his companions. They gave small nods in return.

"Then we help. But you're not going out there just yet. You need to learn how to defend yourself properly. We start immediately,"

Claude gave small, nod, feeling victorious. But there was a thought at the back of her head she was desperately trying to ignore. It demanded attention however.

What the hell am I getting myself into?


	6. Training Montage

When Athos said immediately, he wasn't lying. They'd left the house straight away, only pausing to allow Claude a moment to thank Madame Bonacieux for her hospitality, before marching off to the Musketeer garrison. But when they'd arrived, they didn't head to the practicing ground in the courtyard. Instead, Athos had lead them the stables, a place filled with the musky scent and whinnying of horses. And it was there that they each began to mount one of five horses. Claude watched, slightly confused, and then realised that the last horse was for her. She approached it carefully, reaching out an unsteady hand, and then jumped back when it snorted lightly at her. She looked around, desperately trying to grab someones attention, but they were all busy with their own horses.

"Uhh...Aramis..." She mumbled quietly to the closest man."

He didn't turn around. "Mmhmm?"

"I can't...I mean I don't know how. The horse I mean, I've never-" She veered off, hoping he'd get her point.

"Ah," Clearly he had.

Aramis approached Claude's horse, taking the reigns in a confident, tight grasp, before motioning with his head. Claude stared at him wide eyed for a second, and then approached the horse once more. It swished its tail, but otherwise didn't move. She looked around, watching as D'Artagnan pulled himself up on the saddle, and copied his position, putting her left foot on the stirrup, and grabbing the leather saddle. She gave it a pull, attempting to haul herself up, but her right leg floundered when she tried to fling it over, and she ended up on the ground once more. A second attempt ended similarly, and she heard a deep chuckle from behind.

"Just fling him up there Aramis, we'll be waiting all day," Porthos commanded.

Before Claude could protest, the musketeer had grabbed her around the waist, lifting her with a small grunt but little difficulty onto her horse.

"My Claude, we need to get some meat on your bones," He commented, frowning. "There's nothing off you,"

The girl didn't reply, blushing a little and giving a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening for keeping her secret safe. Somehow, she had a feeling that these men of honour may have a problem with sending a woman into danger, and she'd had enough trouble persuading them in the first place.

Aramis returned to his horse, mounting it swiftly. "Use your heels to make her go, reigns to steer and slow her down," He instructed. "And try to move with her,"

"Or you'll have a mighty sore arse by the end of the day," Porthos warned.

"Just take your time," D'Artagnan added.

Athos did not join the conversation, but looked on, stone faced as always. Claude was unsure what that meant. He was far more difficult to read than the others, sometimes there seemed to be a flicker of life in there somewhere, but he just seemed to be wearing a mask most of the time. Unless he as angry. Which seemed to happen rather quickly. The musketeer spurred his horse, and they followed.

The journey through the city was fairly easy, as they kept a slow pace through the crowds. Claude was relieved to find that D'Artagnan was staying fairly close, guiding his horse beside hers. Aramis and Pothos were behind, while Athos led, alone.

"So...are you a musketeer?" Claude asked.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Not yet. I plan to be in the future though, if they'll have me,"

"How did you end up with this lot?"

The young man was silent for a second, watching the road ahead. When he finally replied, his voice was somber. "My father was murdered by a man posing as a Musketeer,"

"Oh God, I'm sorry-" Claude apologised quickly, but D'Artagnan shook his head.

"No matter. I understand your thirst for vengeance though. It's the first and only thing I could think about when he died. I searched out the man who killed him and challenged him to a duel to the death,"

"And you clearly won,"

He gave a chuckle. "Not quite. It was Athos that I challenged. Of course I soon found out he was innocent, but still...I would have killed him if I'd had the chance,"

"Not likely," came the dry voice of the man up ahead. Ah, was that some rare humor?

The snow was still falling, and by the time they reached the edge of the city, Claude's ears were red, and painful with the cold. As the streets opened up into farmland, they urged the horses faster, their hooves thumping on the cold, snowy ground. Claude gripped the reigns tightly, until she could see her knuckles were turning white. She couldn't decide if it was exhilarating or terrifying. Either way, it was much faster than walking, and in this cold, she was glad of that.

The finally slowed a few miles out of town, where the ground sloped down towards a river, which was partially frozen. A line of trees ran in front of them, opening up into a forest of thickly pressed trees. It was very picturesque, a sight that Claude had never seen during her life in the city. It made her forget the past few days events, if only for a second.

"Porthos, Aramis, scout the area, make sure we haven't been followed," Athos commanded.

"Anyone would be a fool to attack while there are Musketeers here," Porthos commented, but he spurred his horse, cantering away down the tree line.

They swung down off of their horses, tying the reigns to the nearby trees so that they wouldn't wander. Athos grabbed a bundle from his saddle, and then headed away from the trees, unwrapping it as he went.

"Claude!" He called.

The girl ran to catch up, stumbling in the deeper snow, glad of the new boots which were keeping the wet out. The snow was up past her ankles, and she had a bad feeling that it might hamper whatever activity they were about to start. Athos removed his hat, throwing it to D'Artagnan, who had taken a green apple from his saddlebag, and was munching away. He then handed Claude a wooden sword , a practice sword no doubt, taking one from the bundle for himself and dropping the remaining ones in a pile on the snow. He stood, legs apart, sword held ready in front of him.

Claude couldn't have looked more different. While the older man looked fully prepared for a fight, she stood, feet together, holding the sword awkwardly in her right hand. It was heavy, heavier than she'd expected. She looked at the musketeer, and gulped.

"En Garde," He said confidently.

"Wait, you can't be seriou-"

Claude was interrupted by the wooden sword of her opponent swinging down towards her head. She gave a very female sounding squawk, bringing her own sword up just in time to stop the opposing wood whacking her in the forehead. Athos swung again, this time to the left, which she managed barely managed to block. The impact sent vibrations up her hand, jarring her shoulder painfully. But there was no time to recover, the wooden sword was coming again, from the right, and this time, it slammed into her ribs winding her. She doubled over, huffing air out.

"You're going to have to try harder than that," Athos commented dryly.

Gritting her teeth, Claude righted herself, gripping the wooden sword tightly, ready for the next assault. But Athos didn't move. He spun the sword in his hand, face set in a determined scowl, and waited. It was then that Claude realised he was expecting her to make the next move. She swung her sword straight at him. With a flick of the wrist, he sent it flying, landing a good few metres closer to the river, deep in the snow. Claude watched its progress, and then caught movement from the corner of her eye. Athos' sword swung over her head as she ducked, losing her balance and landing in the cold, wet snow. Before she could move, the tip of the wooden sword was pressed into her throat.

"Again," Athos commanded, removing the sword and stepping back.

Claude rolled over, pushing herself up off the ground and suppressing a groan. Her ribs were complaining, but she stumbled off through the snow, to collect her sword. When she returned, Athos was standing, sword at the ready, looking completely unruffled. He swept a stray hair from his face, and then launched the attack again. Claude raised her sword in time, but the overhead blow sent her reeling backwards, landing on her backside in the snow for the third, and probably not the last, time that day. She was ready for him this time however, and when he brought the sword towards her throat, she knocked it out of the way with her own, scrambling backwards and up onto her feet.

"Good," Athos nodded, and she felt a warm glow develop in her chest.

It quickly vanished when he launched forward, batting at her again with the sword. Parry, parry, parry, blow, she was hit on the hip, a juddering pain blossoming as she let out a loud hiss, clutching at it with her left hand. The wooden sword came down again, but she didn't bring hers up fast enough, and it whacked her in the left forearm. Burning pain blossomed through it, and she dropped her sword with a cry, clutching at the leather sleeve of her jerkin, where the bandaged burn lay underneath.

Athos lowered his wooden sword. "Your burn?"

"Yes my burn, what else do you think it is?" She snapped back.

Athos looked slightly taken aback, but it passed, quickly. "If you'd raised your guard on time, it wouldn't have happened,"

"Yes, well if you hadn't whacked me in the hip, my guard would have been raised!" she retorted. The Musketeer did not look pleased.

"The men attacking you will not be sympathetic. They do not care about current injuries, or lack of experience. They want to kill you, and with a performance such as this, they will,"

Claude didn't reply. She knew he was right, but she wasn't going to admit it anytime soon. So she sufficed with scowling back before picking up her sword. The older man gave a swift nod, and the came at her once more. She managed to hold him off for longer this time, determined to prove herself to him, but the sound of approaching horses distracted her, and her sword went flying once more. She landed jarringly on top of her burnt arm, and bit her lip to avoid calling out in pain. She caught Athos moving out of the corner of her eye, and rolled, the tip of his sword missing her neck by a fraction of a second. He advanced, and Claude rolled again, as the wooden sword landed with a thud in the snow to her left. When she turned over, she found herself staring at Athos' shins. An advantage had provided itself, and with a cry, she flung herself forward, pushing his legs out from under him. The two of them landed in a messy heap of limbs and snow.

Laughter echoed across the snowy landscape, deep and booming, accompanied by a slow and thunderous clapping. Claude spat snow from her mouth and looked up to find that Porthos and Aramis had returned, and were tying up the horse. No doubt they had noticed the end of the last fight. D'Artagnan stood not far to their left. It came to no surprise that he was also laughing.

"Do you mind?" Came a mildly irritated voice from the ground beside her, and she realised that she was lying, arms still wrapped around Athos' shins, holding him down.

She scrambled up, hoping that they would attribute her blush to the cold and exertion, and decided to do the polite thing, and offered a hand to the musketeer. He looked at it for a second, and then accepted it, and together they hauled him to his feet. The blush continued to grow, and Claude looked up at Athos with some trepidation, but was surprised to find a small smile on his face.

"Using your head. That'll keep you alive," He reached down, giving the her hair a quick ruffle, sending the snow that was caught in it flying and then picked up his sword, and placing a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back towards the others. "I think a break is in order,"

The feeling of warmth was there in her chest again. Claude grabbed a tight hold of it, determined not to let it fade this time.

Claude wanted off the horse, and she wanted off now. Every muscle seemed to be protesting, and she was freezing cold. They had trained until the light had started to fade, and by that point, Claude was bruised and battered. Her victory against Athos had been short lived, when she found herself facing down each of the men in turn. The experience had been memorable to say the least.

Aramis had been first, and she'd learnt quickly that his neat appearance and gentlemanly ways did not mean that he wasn't a formidable fight. In fact, far from it. He was fast. That had been the most important thing Claude had taken away from it. Fast and clever, constantly looking for an upper hand. The particularly sore bruise she was sporting on her upper right thigh was his fault.

She balked when Porthos had stepped up to the task. The man was a giant, a giant made of muscle, and not a stranger to a good scrap judging by the scar running over his left eye. Porthos didn't just use his sword either, oh no. He used his entire body. During one memorable spar, she'd successfully blocked him, only to find the man grabbing her by the jerkin and launching her across the snow to land in a pile. To make matters worse, the others were watching the whole time, so as she picked herself up off the ground, she was told exactly what she was doing wrong.

"Move your feet!" Athos had shouted. "Use his size against him!"

Claude was pretty sure that was an impossibility. And now, thanks to Porthos, her left knee felt like it was seizing up.

D'Artagnan, well D'Artagnan was something else. He wasn't a Musketeer, and yet his skill with a blade was comparable to Aramis and Porthos, and even that of Athos. Claude wasn't sure if she was just tiring by the point D'Artagnan stepped up, but she failed to block twice the blows that he hit, compared to Porthos before him. After the solid blow that caught Claude across her back, sending her flying onto her knees, she had dropped her sword, raising her hands in the air.

"I give up, I give up!"

D'Artagnan had lowered his sword, looking across at the watching Musketeers, before crouching down, taking a hold of her arms, and hoisting her up onto her feet. Claude's chest was gasping in great gulps of air, and with a pained groan, she started up the slope, struggling through the snow towards the others. When she reached them, Porthos gave her a massive clap on the shoulders, making her flinch in pain.

"Not bad for your first time," He chuckled. Claude only grimaced a reply.

"He'll need to do much better if he wants to get out of this alive," Athos stated, turning and walking back to the horses. "We start again tomorrow morning,"

And so, when Claude finally slid off of her horse, all she wanted to do was crawl into some form of bed, and sleep. Even the straw on the floor of the ruined cottage seemed like a blessed relief now. But the others seemed to have a different idea. No, as far as they were concerned, they were heading to the nearest drinking den.

It was warm inside, so at least it had that going for it. It smelt heavily wine, and unwashed men. And what was that? Some sort of roasting meat. Claude's mouth began to water. Maybe she wasn't quite so tired after all.

"Here," Porthos emptied a pile of coins into Claude's hand, smirking at her widening eyes. "Go get us some drinks and some of that food, smells delicious,"

The barman eyed Claude, raising an eyebrow after looking at her up and down. She tried to ignore him, opening her hand so he could see the coins inside. As soon as he spotted them, he smiled, a large, fake smile but it meant she was getting served. He came back with five dusty looking bottles of wine and a massive plate of...well some sort of meat. Claude's grumbling belly didn't care what it was. She scooped the plate up, but before she could attempt to juggle the bottles, Aramis had appeared at her side, grabbing them for her.

"You needn't have bothered getting a fifth bottle, Athos won't be joining us," He told her as they made their way to the table that Porthos and D'Artagnan had occupied.

"Why not? Is he alright?"

"He's a solitary drinker," Aramis explained, pointing towards the Musketeer, sitting by himself in the corner of the room. "He prefers to drown his sorrows alone,"

"And drown them he does," Porthos added as they sat down at the table. "We'll be picking him off the floor before we leave,"

"But why?" Claude asked, stealing a glance at Athos from the corner of her eye.

"We don't ask, he doesn't talk about it," Aramis said, taking a swig of his wine.

D'Artagnan stayed silent, looking slightly uncomfortable. He took a swig of his own wine, and grabbed a slab of the meat, before changing the subject.

"So were you born in Paris Claude?"

The girl nodded. "My dad was a carpenter. Quite good from what my mother said. He left when I was a baby though so I don't remember much about him," She took a swig of the wine. It burnt her throat on the way down, but left her feeling warm. "My mother ended up working on the streets to bring in money to feed me and my sister. Died of some disease when I was six. Just wasted away. And then that was it, I was out by myself,"

"What about your sister?" Aramis asked.

"She was older than me, by five years. Ended up following my mother onto the streets. She was working in a brothel by the age of twelve,"

"God," D'Artagnan was speechless. "I'm sorry Claude,"

"S'alright," Claude shrugged, taking a massive swig of wine. It was then she realised that half the bottle was gone. When did that happen? She was feeling a little dizzy.

"My mother died when I was five," Porthos muttered. "She'd come to Paris to be free, and it ended up being her grave site,"

"You're a Musketeer now," Claude stated. "She'd be proud,"

Porthos paused, the bottle half-way to his mouth. "I hope so," He took a swig.

"To mothers!" Aramis toasted.

"To mothers," The others chimed, clinking their bottles together.

"To family," Claude muttered.

She glanced back across the room to where Athos sat by himself. There were two empty bottles of wine on his table already, a third half way to his mouth. Claude excused herself from the table, picking the half eaten plate of meat up as she went, and crossed the room, sitting down opposite the drunken Musketeer. He looked up from the bottle he was cradling, scowling.

"What do you want," His speech was slurred already, but his eyes were still clear, and full of a strength of emotion that Claude had never seen before.

"I brought you some food,"

"I don't want it," He pushed the plate away, finishing the bottle of wine he was holding, and uncorking the next.

"Why are you doing this Athos? Why not come and join everyone," She asked gently.

"I prefer to be left alone," Came the bitter reply.

"Well, maybe we don't want to leave you alone!"

He scoffed. "I don't deserve their company. Or their friendship. Now leave me be," He reached down inside his leather jerkin, removing a locket on a long chain. He gripped it tight in his hand.

"Athos-"

"I said leave me be!" He snapped, slamming his fist down on the table. Claude flinched, standing up quickly, nearly stumbling back over the chair leg. Taking one last look at his sorry state, she returned to the table.

"I told you," Aramis had clearly been watching from afar. "There's no talking to him when he's like this,"

Porthos was right. They carried him home that night.

Athos was completely unconscious when Porthos and Aramis lowered him onto his bed. He'd passed out on the table back at the bar, spilling a half empty bottle of wine across the floor. He muttered something in his sleep, a pitiful sound, almost like begging, and then rolled over, nearly falling out onto the floor. Claude had looked on, brow furrowed, taking in the room.

The house was small, clearly built for one, and would have been fairly comfortable had it not been for the empty bottles of wine littering the place. Had Athos' state not made it clear to her, the house did now. The musketeer had a serious problem. What had made him like this? What had sent him into this spiral of guild and self-loathing? Claude jumped as Aramis quietly called for him.

"Help me get his jerkin off," He instructed, unfastening the buckle of the belted leather.

Porthos was pulling the man's boots off as they spoke, and between them, Aramis and Claude made swift work of the buttons. They pulled his jerkin off as quickly and gently as possible, but it didn't matter, Athos was dead to the world. Claude unwrapped his scarf from his neck, trying to ignore the burn of the approaching blush as his shirt fell open, revealing a toned chest covered in a sea of hair. The locket fell out, hanging down from his neck, and she tucked it back in, brushing her fingers across the soft skin of his neck.

They rolled him into a comfortable position on his side, and stood, looking down at the Musketeer, pity etched on their faces.

"This is getting worse," Porthos muttered. "He's in a right state tonight,"

"One of these mornings we're going to find him dead, choked on his own vomit," Aramis, ran a hand through his curly hair.

The two men exchanged a glance, before heading to the door, their heads hung in resignation.

"I'll stay with him tonight," Claude spoke, surprising even herself.

"Are you sure?" Aramis asked, looking back at his friend on the bed.

"It's the least I can do,"

The man nodded, giving Claude's shoulder a light squeeze. "Good man. We'll see you tomorrow. You did well today,"

Claude gave a small smile. "Thanks. Both of you,"

And with that, they left her, with only the unconscious Athos for company.

There was a cupboard in the corner of the room, and she opened it quietly, spotting a few stray woolen blankets. She pulled them out, bundling them on the floor in the corner where she could get a view of the bed. And so, it was there, in the corner of Athos' bed chamber, that Claude settled down for her vigil.


	7. Discovery

The Cardinal sat behind his desk, impatiently drumming his fingers on the table. The man was late, as he should of expected with such scum. He'd been wary about hiring such an individual, but after the mess with the red guards he couldn't risk using his own men again. Treville's musketeers, particularly Athos and his friends seemed to be getting extremely lucky. No, he couldn't risk it.

The door to his audience chamber opened, and a man strode in haughtily. He had the look of someone extremely sure of himself, a thin smile spread across his uncomely features. He reminded Richelieu of a rat, thin faced, a scruff of hair across his chin, and little watery eyes. His teeth were yellowed, uneven. And the smell. By god it made him want to vomit. The quicker he could get this over and done with, the quicker he could get this vermin out of his sight.

"Well Delvaux, it seems we've found ourselves at in a bit of a quandary," The Cardinal gave a sickly sweet smile. "Tell me, how is it your men failed to dispose of all evidence of our crime,"

"Just bad luck," The man replied casually, clearly unfazed by the situation.

"Indeed," Rechelieu's smile slipped from his face. "And was it bad luck that led your men to allow a street urchin to escape? You assured me that your men were trained! You assured me, your plan would not fail,"

Delvaux shrugged. "These things happen,"

The Cardinal rose from his desk, swooping out towards the man, cape billowing like the black wings of a crow. "How does the noose sound to you? But of course, these things happen!" His voice was snide, dripping with venom.

For the first time since entering the room, Dalvaux looked uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and looked down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him. Satisfied that he finally had the man's full attention, the Cardinal turned away from him.

"You will properly dispose of the boy. I don't care how you do it. And I want you to find out who that envoy was speaking to. We can't let a word of what he heard reach Spanish ears,"

He waved a hand, dismissing the man, and listened to his retreating footsteps before returning to his desk. All there was to do, was to wait.

Claude had hardly slept. The stone floor was cold and hard, the woolen blankets only bringing some warmth. Still, it was better than sleep outside. No, Claude had stayed awake most of the night, listening to the drunken mutterings of Athos as he slept. She couldn't quite make out the words he was saying, but at times, he almost sounded in pain. It was unsettling, to see him as a shadow of the man he was when he was sober. Claude was petrified that if she fell asleep, he would be dead in the morning, having choked on his own vomit as Aramis had said. But after a few hours watching him toss and turn, eyes growing heavy and limbs aching from the day's training, Athos began to quieten. The muttering stopped, replaced with a light snoring, and his sleep grew more peaceful. Claude gave into temptation, and slipped into a deep sleep herself.

The dreams returned. They started the same as before, her dead friends lying bleeding and burnt on the ground. She'd walked around the house, the heat of the flames stinging her face. Her arm was on fire, burning. Mud followed behind, silent, deathly pale, blood pouring from his chest. But then the scene changed. She was running down a narrow street, men in cloaks following, gunshots echoing behind her. She caught sight of Mud standing, watching from a doorway, and there he was again, looking from a window above. She rounded the corner, and skidded to a halt. Porthos, Aramis, Athos and D'Artagnan stood, each holding a musket. The raised them, pointing directly at her. A firing squad. Behind them, Mud stood, watching. The little boy smiled. The muskets went off, and Claude woke with a start.

She sucked in air, trying to steady her speeding heart. There was a cold sweat on her forehead, and her eyes were struggling to focus. When they final did, a strangled cry rose from her throat. Mud stood in the corner beside her, bleeding, pale. His lifeless face began to stretch into a horrifying smile. Claude scrambled backwards, the woolen blankets tangling around her legs and slowing her progress. She couldn't breath, couldn't speak, complete and utter terror filling her entire being. Claude knocked into the wooden table behind her. The sound of something falling over clunked above her head, followed by the dull rumble of something rolling on wood. An empty wine bottle fell from the table above, smashing as it hit the stone floor, sending glass across the room.

Claude flinched at the noise, and when she looked back at the corner, Mud was gone. Athos however, grunted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed. He pulled a short, but deadly looking knife out from under his pillow, hair wild, panting, springing to his feet and brandishing the blade. After a moment of staring around, wild eyes, he finally noticed Claude rooted to the spot on the floor, shaking and wide eyed.

"What are you doing?" He snarled, the knife still raised. "Why are you in my house,"

"I-I was-was" Claude choked on her words. "I mean you-you were r-really drunk a-and-"

Her eyes kept flicking between the corner of the room and the knife. Athos seemed to notice this, and lowered it, slipping it back under his pillow before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He gave a sigh, covering his face with his hands and rubbing his eyes, elbows balanced on his knees.

"What happened?" He groaned from between his hands.

Claude was staring back at the corner. Her heart was still beating twice as fast, and there was a lump in her throat. She felt sick to the stomach.

"Claude!"

Claude gave a small squeak, jumping at the sound of Athos' tired voice. "W-What?"

"What. Happened?"

"I-I knocked the bottle off the table. I'm sorry!"

"That's not what I mean,"

Claude looked up at the man on the bed. He was now leaning forward, one hand draped across his knees, the other propping him up by the forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, tired. No doubt he had a pounding head ache, hung over from his night of drinking. This was probably the last thing he needed.

The girl on the floor took a steadying breath, shutting her eyes for two seconds, trying to calm down. But when she spoke, her voice still shook with fear.

"I woke up and-and M-Mud was standing in the corner,"

"Mud?"

"The boy from the market. The little one,"

"Ah," It was all becoming slightly clearer now. Athos bent down, grabbing one of the empty bottles at his feet. He tipped it up to his mouth, giving it a shake, but only a few drops slid out. He drooped it again in disgust. "It was just a dream,"

"But what if it wasn't? It's my fault he's dead, what if he's coming for me? It should have been me Athos, it's my fault and it should have been me-" Claude's voice was thick with emotion, fists clenched. Her eyes were intense, and the older man could see the pain and desperation in them. It was hauntingly familiar to him, and with dawning horror, Athos began to realise why. It was like looking in a mirror.

"Claude," When Athos spoke again, his voice was gentle, deliberate. "I want you to listen to me carefully. This is not your fault. Life has dealt you a poor hand. It's neither fair nor easy to bare. But one day, you will learn how,"

Claude didn't reply. She shut her eyes tightly, willing her heart to slow, and hung her head. There was a scuffling noise, and when she opened her eyes, Athos was pulling his boots on. He grabbed his dark blue jerkin from the chair where it lay, slinging it on and buckling it. On went his scabbard, and pistol, before he lifted his hat.

"I'm going to go get some food. Try and rest, you've got a long day ahead of you. You can use the bed,"

He strode over to the door, slipping his hat onto his head, ready to leave into the early, bitter, cold morning air.

"Who was she?" Came a voice from the other side of the room.

Athos turned slightly. "Who?"

"The woman you lost. The woman who owned the locket,"

A dark shadow passed over Athos' face. He swung the door open, stepping out. "Get some sleep,"

Claude watched the door swing shut before swearing under her breath. She just had to go and open her big mouth didn't she? Aramis had warned her that Athos didn't like discussing his past. And she'd gone and asked outright. She scrambled up from the floor, dragging the woolen blanket with her and glancing once again at the corner where Mud had stood, which remained empty, before climbing onto the bed in front of her. It was still warm from the last occupant, and as she laid her head down on the pillow, Claude caught a scent of wine and musk. It was warm, and comforting, so she curled in a ball, breathing it in lightly, but knew she wouldn't sleep. Claude waited, terrified of shutting her eyes, until the musketeer returned.

"This isn't working!" Claude threw the wooden practice sword down onto the ground, spraying up great lumps of snow. Her hands were numb with the cold, the leather gloves that she'd been given by Aramis this morning doing little to keep them warm. She held her side tightly, the dull throb in her ribs pounding with every heart beat.

D'Artagnan lowered his sword, frowning. "I know it's difficult, but you've got to persevere. Everybody has to start somewhere,"

"Yeah, well everybody doesn't have to learn to fight days before intentionally going to meet up with some murderers!" She snapped back, turning away, and kicking the snow at her feet.

"Maybe we should take a break," The young man suggested, looking across to the three Musketeers, sitting on the wall watching.

Porthos looked up from his pistol, which he had been cleaning, and gave a smirk. "Getting tired are we D'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by Athos, who had sat, arms crossed, watching their every move. "We continue. It's the only way he'll be ready,"

"You know that's a damn lie!" Claude snarled. She flung her arms in the air. "You said yourself, it's a death sentence, why are we even wasting our time doing this?"

"Claude-"

"No! I'm fed up of being battered and bruised! I don't see why I can't just get it over and done with!"

She stalked off, heading across the snow towards the river, not bothering to look at their reactions. What did they think they were doing? She wasn't some gifted protegé, about to pick up everything within a few short days of practice. So why bother even prolonging it? What good was that doing? She'd just have to suffer through more sleepless nights, more guilt. Better to finish it, and quickly.

D'Artagnan had watched her go, raising his practice sword so that it was balancing on is shoulder, before sighing and making his way over to where the group sat. Porthos had returned to cleaning his pistol with added vigor, clearly frustrated. Athos was focused on the figure in the distance, face set in a stormy expression.

Aramis removed his hat, rubbing his eyes and giving a groan. "He's right you know. There's no way he's going to be competent in a few days. He needs weeks, months even, of training. We're just tiring him about before sending him into the lions den,"

"Aramis is right," Porthos commented, looking up from his work. "We need to start thinking about a different strategy,"

Athos was shaking his head. "I'm not will to send the boy to his death,"

"That's not what we're saying," Aramis interrupted quickly. "We just need to think about how we're approaching this. Perhaps coming at him with swords isn't the best way to go about this,"

The group was silent for a moment, glancing back at the figure that had now reached the river.

"What if we play to his strengths," D'Artagnan was the first to break the silence. "He's managed to stay alive this long, he must be doing something right,"

Athos nodded looking preoccupied, and then began to stalk off toward the river. Aramis stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe you better let me fetch him. You two seem to be butting heads more often than not,"

"He's stubborn," Athos grumbled.

"And you're not?"

The musketeer gave a reluctant nod, leaning back against the wall and letting the other man go ahead.

Claude was crouched down at the waters edge. She'd pulled her knife from her boot, an old notched thing that she'd been using to cut the purses from rich passer-bys for years. Well at least she'd assumed they were rich. They certainly had more money than she did. Claude sunk the knife into the thick ice at the edge of the river, wiggling it around and watching the splinters chip from the crack her movements were creating. With a wrench, she pulled it out, and then slammed it back into the ice with a thunk. Maybe she could just run. No, they were too far away from Paris, and it was freezing. She could take a horse while they were distracted, but they'd ride her down in a matter of minutes. She'd have to wait until they were back in the Paris. Maybe sneak away while they were drinking, or later. There was no point staying around any longer.

She heard the crunch of approaching boots, but didn't turn around. No doubt Athos was coming to scold her, or point a wooden sword at her throat again. All part of the training of course. Well he could whatever he wanted. She'd be gone by morning.

But it wasn't Athos. The boots stopped beside her, and she heard someone let out a breath as the crouched down beside her. Curiosity getting the better of her, she stole a quick glance out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm not fighting you anymore Aramis. So just leave me be,"

"Actually, I wasn't going to suggest that," He stated mildly.

She looked around, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Then what are you doing here?"

Aramis didn't answer. Instead, watched as she continued to chip away at the ice.

"I used to fish in a river like this as a boy," He commented. "Never caught anything of note, but it passed the long hot summer days. Come to think of it, I wasn't very good. But I found other things to do to pass the time that I was better at,"

Claude pulled the knife from the ice, wiping it on her breeches, frowning. "Is this turning into an inspirational speech Aramis? Because I've never been one for believing in those,"

"Actually, I was just trying to break the ice,"

Claude watched as the smile spread across his face, her own deadpan, before giving a shove so he landed on his back in the snow.

"That was terrible!" But she was smiling now, no, laughing, for the first time in days.

The musketeers was chuckling, his hat having fallen off backwards into the snow, He picked it up, faking a look of disappointment at it's state; the feather was soaked, and there was snow sitting in the dip. Claude rose, and then offered him a gloved hand. He looked at it for a second, and then accepted, and with a grunt she pulled him to his feet. He sat his hat back on his head, and then put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her back towards the group.

"So that knife. Can you do more than cut purses with it?"

Claude shrugged. "I've never killed anyone if that's what your asking. But it's been handy in a couple of unavoidable scrapes. Why?"

"I think I might have an idea,"

There were four of them. Last time she'd been in a fight like this there'd only been three. But then again, she had only been fourteen. She was faster know, smarter.

Claude stayed crouched, close to the ground, knife out at a right angle in her hand. The Musketeers (and of course D'Artagnan) circled, swords raised, ready to pounce. She flicked her head around, trying to keep them all in sight. It was difficult, but the snow help, their feet crunching noisily as they moved. There was a flurry of noise behind her, and she ducked, dodging quickly to the side as Porthos stormed towards her. He swung his sword, but she was already gone, behind him. She spun her knife in her hand, and waited for the next attack.

It came from the side, D'Artagnan, lighter on his feet than Porthos. It was a near miss, and she ended up on the ground at his feet, rolling away quickly and scrambling up before he could attack again. But there was no time to recover as Athos swung at her from the left. Her feet sunk awkwardly in the snow when she tried to move. Claude brought the knife up to her face, catching the wooden sword at the last moment. The knife sunk into the wood with a thud, the jolt running down her arm. She pulled it free with a cry, and then kept moving. She couldn't stop moving.

A swing from Aramis caught her in the arm. She stumbled backwards, and ducked at the sound of footsteps behind her. Porthos barreled forward once more, and slammed into her, sending her sprawling across the snow. She readied her knife, but by the time she looked up, there were four wooden swords pointed at her throat. Claude gave a dejected sigh, and rolled over, pushing herself up.

Athos caught her by surprise. "Good. Much better in fact,"

"When you've fought before, how have you kept the upper hand?" D'Artagnan asked.

Claude thought for a second, trying to remember her time on the streets. "I try and keep out of the open. Don't let them surround me. Use the element of surprise,"

And then it hit her. The Musketeers raised their swords for another round. Claude was already moving, darting between them and launching herself over the stone wall, into the woods ahead. The snow was lighter here, but the floor was covered in dead twigs and branches. She'd have to be light on her feet.

"This is more like it!" She heard Porthos shouting as they ran after her, hitting the tree line.

The further in she went, the larger the trees grew, becoming tighter pressed. Checking over her shoulder, she hunkered down behind a particularly large one, and waited. The sound of footsteps approached and then stopped. She peeked out, to find the men watching, waiting, straining to hear her movement. Claude picked up a stick beside her, and as quietly as possible, hurled it off into the bushes to her right. She watched as Athos gave a short nod, and Porthos crept forward towards the source of the noise.

She waited until he was a sufficient distance from the group, and then began to creep forward herself, mindful of what was underfoot. But years of picking pockets had trained her to be light on her feet, and she managed to reach the nearest tree to the big man. He turned, looking through the undergrowth away from her and she took her moment. Claude sprinted forward, no longer bothered about making a noise, and launched herself onto his back.

Porthos bellowed, throwing his weight backwards. Her hands around his neck slipped, but she landed on her feet, and disappeared into the trees once more. The sound of boots on twigs came hurrying towards them and the others appeared. They found Porthos panting, looking around in confusion. He cracked a smile.

"He knows what he's doing,"

Claude chucked another stick, and they all turned around. Athos gave a signal, and he began to creep towards the noise. The others followed this time. The girl watched frustrated. She'd have to think of another approach for this one. Or, she could run now, get back to Paris while they looked for her in the woods. It was tempted, she had to admit. But something kept her from doing it. That warm feeling in her chest when Athos had praised her progress.

Christ Claude. She thought to herself. A couple of nights in a normal bed and your turning soppy.

She followed the musketeers through the woods.

The gurgling of a nearby stream began to increase in volume, one that must have fed the river she'd been chipping ice at. She used it to her advantage, its noise covering her footsteps well, allowing her to circle the group, coming to rest in a large layer of scrub at the foot of a tree. She lay flat on her stomach. Listening. The men were looking around, waiting for her to pounce. But the only sound they heard was the bubbling of the brook, down the slope to their left. And so she waited. Why rush? They might move off, thinking she'd moved, and then she could pounce from behind. And after a few minutes, sure enough, they did, crunching through the undergrowth in the other direction. Athos lingered for a second, looking around, and then began to follow. Claude rose to a crouch, and left the bushes.

The swing of Athos' sword took her full on in the chest, sending her head over heals onto the slop behind them. She rolled, winded, dazed, and came to a final, freezing and soaking rest in the stream below. Oh god it was so cold! And the throbbing in her chest made matters worse. Claude groaned, dragging herself up onto the river bank, where she lay, trying to get her breath back.

"You did well. But you need to stay quiet until the very final moment. I could hear you break into a run," Athos stood over her, holding his wooden sword.

She grunted a response, a violent shivering taking over her entire body. She wrapped her arms around her, trying to keep in some warmth. It didn't really help.

"Come." Athos instructed. "You should remove your jerkin and shirt, you'll be warmer without them. You can borrow a cloak for the return journey,"

"I'll b-be f-f-f-ine," Claude forced out, pulling herself to her feet.

"Claude you'll catch your death of cold," Athos replied firmly. "Now is not the time for shyness,"

"No, no," She tried to keep her voice steady. "I'm fine honest, once I'll get moving-"

The look on his face stopped her in her tracks. It was impatient growing on angry. But what was she supposed to say. There was no way she was undressing any where near these people. She couldn't.

"Don't be a child Claude!" Athos snapped. "Take off the jerkin!"

She could hear the others crunching through the forest now. If she ran, they'd catch her, no bother. "I can't," She muttered through her gritted teeth.

"Claude-"

"I can't, I'm not a boy!" She interrupted him.

"So you keep telling me," Athos drawled impatiently.

"No that's not what I mean," She muttered.

The look of comprehension that hit Athos like a brick would have been comical in any other situation. Instead, it filled Claude with a deep horror. And she began to back away slowly. To hell if they caught her, running was her only option. Before she could move however, Athos shot his hand out, grabbing her arm, having noticed her movements. She couldn't read the emotion in his eyes, but it was there, and it was strong. Claude looked at her feet.

"My God Claude, you're soaked!" Aramis' chuckle reached her ears. "What on earth did we miss?"

Athos' reply sent a wave of nausea through the girl in his grasp.

"We've been mislead. Claude is a woman,"


	8. Right of Easy

Claude decided to pretend she was sleeping. It was the easiest way to try and ignore the awkwardness of the situation. She could tell he was still angry with her, and there was no way she was going to attempt small talk. Because she was still angry with him. The horse plodded along beneath them, a cold wind blowing flakes of snow into her face. At least the shivering had stopped. The musketeers had been right in one way at least, using someone else's body heat did make a big difference. And Athos was warm especially with his cloak wrapped around the two of them. But God, why did they have to find out!

"We've been mislead. Claude is a woman,"

The looks on the other's faces had been priceless. Amusing almost, had the situation not been so dire. Claude had struggled, trying to pull her arm from Athos' grasp, but his grip tightened, just like it had done when he'd caught her that day in the market. The other's stood, mouths hanging open, doing very good impressions of fish for the next few moments. Although it felt more like a few hours.

"Well..." Aramis began. "I suppose that does explain a few things,"

"Why did you hide this from us?" Athos' voice was laced with anger. And so Claude responded in turn.

"Maybe I thought you'd act like this! And can you let go, your hurting me!"

His grip loosened, and she wrenched herself from him, rubbing her arm, scowling.

Athos seemed to compose himself slightly. "My apologies Mademoiselle,"

"Oh no!" Claude snapped. "Don't start any of that rubbish! I'm no more a lady than I was five minutes ago. It's Claude, or nothing!"

"As a matter of interest, what is your real name?" D'Artagnan asked.

Claude paused for a second, before reluctantly muttering "Claudette,"

Porthos still had a look of shock on his face. He finally spoke, his voice incredulous. "How did we not guess? It seems kind of obvious now-"

"I was still sure you were lying about your age," Aramis added. "So...you are 22?"

"Of course! That's what I've been telling you all along, but no one believed me!" She stomped up the slope, rubbing her arms, trying to get the blood circulating quicker. The cold was starting to seep into her bones, and the shivering was violent.

"You've just shown your true colours now, you could have just as easily been lying about your age," Athos stated, following her up the slope.

Claude gritted her teeth, ignoring him, and kept walking. The ground was slippery, and she stumbled a few times, but she was determined to get out of those woods and back to Paris.

"My lady Claudette, may I assist you back to the horses?" She looked up to find Aramis gloved hand outstretched for her.

She opened her mouth to launch a tirade at him, when a smirk started to stretch across his face, and she realised he was joking. She made do with raising a finger, pointing at him in warning. "Call me Claudette one more time Aramis, and I'll chuck you in that river!"

Her threat only produced a low chuckle from him however, and she found herself smiling despite the situation. At least Aramis seemed to be taking the news well. D'Artagnan still seemed a little shocked. He kept looking at her out of the corner of his eyes as they walked through the forest, but she just ignored it. It would be strange finding out that someone you've known as a boy for the past week is actually a woman. She looked back over her shoulder. Athos' face was thunder, looking down at the ground as he walked. He looked up at her and she quickly looked forward again. Why did he have to take it so personally? It was none of his business!

"Kind of wish you'd said something before I laid into you with that wooden sword," Porthos muttered to her left.

He's feeling guilty.

"Those men aren't going to care what gender I am when they try to kill me Porthos. Think nothing of it," She reassured.

"Except they won't be trying to kill you. The plan is off," Athos announced loudly behind her.

Claude stopped in her tracks. The musketeer behind her nearly walked into her, and she spun around, poking a finger into his chest. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I'm not sending a woman to fight our battles,"

"But it's alright to send a boy!" Claude shouted incredulous.

Athos looked slightly uncomfortable. "That is not what I meant,"

"Well it certainly sounded like it!"

She stalked off again, walking as quickly as she could through the woods. Athos opened his mouth to argue back, back Aramis placed a hand on his friends shoulder, giving a shrug. There was a time and a place to have this discussion, but it wasn't here, in the freezing woods with a soaking wet Claude. And so, after much bickering with the grumpy woman about how she should ride home, they had eventually persuaded her to ride with Athos, her own horse being led by Porthos back to Paris. And Claude was hating every moment of it.

Why did he have to be so warm? If she'd been uncomfortable, it would have been a much simpler ride back. But she wasn't. She hunkered down further into the cloak, feeling Athos' exhale a cloud of breath onto the back of her head. What did he mean back in the woods? He wasn't going to let her do her job? She'd like to see him try and stop her!

Claude jolted back to reality when the horse stopped, snorting in the cold air. Apparently, the warmth had actually sent her into a doze. Athos slipped from the horse, holding a gloved hand out for her. She looked at it with narrowed eyes, and then looked at the drop to the ground. Reluctantly, she accepted his hand, and climbed off the horse.

Looking around she realised they were back at Madame Bonaceuix's house. They tied their horses outside, and entered, the heat inside bring a rosy glow to their faces. Constance greeted them, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Madame, apologies for the intrusion. We have some delicate business to discuss, business we would rather not overheard," Aramis took his hat off, ever the gentleman.

"Couldn't you discuss it back at the garrison? My husband will be back tonight," She didn't sound too pleased about that fact however.

"I'm afraid not. Privacy is of the utmost importance,"

Constance nodded reluctantly, and Claude hurried over to the fireplace, giving a groan as the heat sunk into her chilled bones. It was bliss! She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and enjoying the warmth for a few moments. A firm cough caught her attention, and she realised the others were watching her, waiting. She cleared her own throat, and sat up, feeling slightly awkward.

"What are we going to do then?" Porthos broke the silence.

"We go ahead as planned," Claude spoke up before anyone could protest. Athos shook his head in reply.

"No. We speak to Treville, explain the situation,"

"You can't stop me going out there! Really, you guys can't agree with this?!"

Aramis sighed. "Claude, I'm afraid I'm inclined to agree with Athos. I'm not comfortable sending you into danger,"

Claude sat, spluttering with indignation. She looked between them, eyes wide in shock. Aramis too? He's seemed so relaxed about the revelation, she'd been sure he would back her. Apparently not. Claude looked imploringly at Porthos. He looked at his friends giving a shrug.

"She did prove herself today. And I knew a few girls during my days on the streets that could hold there own against any of the boys,"

"She?" Constance was in the doorway, frowning in confusion. "Did I miss something here?" She looked at Claude.

"I uh...yeah I'm-I'm a girl," Claude muttered halfheartedly. "Surprise!"

"And so what? Now you know, you've suddenly changed your mind about this suicide mission? Because she's a woman?" There was steel in Constance's voice. A sudden realisation hit Claude. She might have an ally here.

"Madame-" Athos began, but she cut him off.

"If Claude wants to do it, I see no reason why she shouldn't! The fact she's a woman should have nothing to do with it!"

"I thought you were against her doing it in the first place?" D'Artagnan ventured. A steely glare was sent in his direction.

"When I thought she was a child yes! She's a fully grown adult, she should be allowed to choose for herself, its her life!"

"Thank you Madame Bonaceuix," Claude said haughtily.

"Please, call me Constance," Came the reply.

The men looked between each other, despairing slightly at the new alliance that was forming before their eyes. D'Artagnan seemed to be biting his tongue, stuck between his friends and his land lady. Aramis gave a sigh, sitting down at the table and balancing his head on his hands, ruffling his curly hair. Claude glanced at Athos. He still looked angry, but there seemed to be a slight look of conflict on his face. He felt her gaze on him, and looked her way. His eyes were unreadable.

"Look no offence," She told him. "But I don't care about your 'honour as a gentleman', or that you 'can't endanger a woman'. Like I said before, I'm not a lady. I'm some urchin of the street that no one's given a thought to until now. My friends are dead. My parents are dead. The man I thought of as a brother is dead. My sister is God knows where, also probably dead. I have nothing left. Nothing! We knew I might not come back from this, and I'm okay with that. I have nothing to come back from this for!"

"That's not true-" Porthos ventured, but she cut him off.

"But it is! You could join the musketeers, start a new life. What's a girl like me supposed to do? I can't fight, and posing as a man, it's only a matter of time before someone works it out. I can't sew, or write, or sing. I can't play any instruments. What's left. Become a whore? No, there's no possible future for me,"

"You could become a serving girl. Or work in the stables," D'Artagnan suggested.

Claude looked at him, unsure. "But I have no one to vouch for me,"

"We would vouch for you,"

Athos statement caught her off guard. She didn't know how to respond. Was he lying, just to stop her from going ahead with the plan? She'd tried to cut his purse for God's sake! But the idea was tempting. Over the past few days she grown fond of the horses, gentle great beasts that they were. Her own horse had its own personality she was beginning to realise. More than just transport. She could work at the stables, watch the hustle and bustle of the musketeers coming and going, training, going out on patrol. She could see her friends any time she wanted. Wait, friends? Was that how she was thinking of them now? Thoroughly confused, she looked at her feet. The fight seemed to have left her.

"At least sleep on it," Aramis suggested. "And we can talk to Treville in the morning,"

She sighed, and gave a small nod. The men deflated, looking a little relieved. The door opened, and a slim, dark haired man walked in. He looked around at them, flustered.

"Constance? What on earth's going on?"

"Monieour Bonaseuix, good evening. We were just leaving," Athos stated quickly. "Thank you for your hospitality Madame. D'Artagnan," He nodded a farewell to the young man, and strode towards the door. Claude quickly climbed to her feet, giving Constance a small smile before following the others out.

Athos sat at the table in his small house, a half empty wine bottle in one hand, and various empty ones scattered about. The numbing effects of the wine had already taken most of this thoughts, the pain and turmoil that plagued him deadened, at least for the night. His thoughts drifted towards his dead, no, living, wife, but he pushed them aside, eager to forget that night in his chateau. The flames flickered in his minds eye, and heat, the smell of his families home burning to the ground. And her. Hauntingly beautiful in the flickering light of the flames. A ghost, he'd thought at first. Finally comeback to haunt him in his waking hours, as well as those he slept.

He slumped against the table, burrowing his head into the sleeve of his shirt, eyes scrunched shut against the pain. Since finding out his wife was still alive, he had hoped the pain would leave him. Instead, it had intensified, his nights becoming a living hell. His pain, his anguish and loneliness was still there, but there was something else too. Anger. Confusion.

He sucked in a deep, shaking breath, and looked up, chin still balanced on his arm. He could see the bed from here, the figure sprawled , tangled in the covers, breathing slowly and methodically. Claude had been mumbling in her sleep at first, but seemed to have calmed. She'd argued at first, refusing to take his bed, purely on principle he believed, but she was tired, and fed up of fighting. She finally collapsed in a heap, and had quickly fallen asleep.

Athos rose to his feet, unsteady. He took a swig of his wine, and approached the bed, watching the sleeping figure. He hair had untangled itself from the piece of string tying it, falling about her face. It was shoulder length, a light, dirty brown colour. Her nose was slightly squint he noticed, for the first time, probably broken in a scuffle. She'd taken her jerkin off, the great linen shirt beneath loose, massive on her. She buttoned it up as far as possible, but around the neck it hung loose, revealing the soft skin of her collar bone. She was painfully thin he realised. Life on the streets had not treated her well, he couldn't begin to imagine what it had been like, what had happened to drive her to hide her gender. But sleeping as she did now, her face innocent, child like, he could finally see it. In fact, he wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it before, it was fairly obvious. Claude was obviously female. He leaned forward, grasping the sheet gently, and pulling it up to her shoulder. She mumbled something in her sleep, but didn't wake.

Athos returned to the table, feeling thoroughly confused and exhausted. He'd already been struggling to find a reason to continue with the plan, but now? No, he couldn't go ahead with it. He gave an amused snort. He care for the girl, he realised that now. There was something terribly vulnerable about her, but she had spirit, and he admired that. No, he'd speak to Treville in the morning. She'd hate him for it, loath him probably, but she would live. It would be worth it.

Athos slumped forward, falling asleep on the table in front of him, the last drops of his wine, spilling out onto the wood.

Claude awoke with a start. The room was dark, still in the depths of night. A light snoring told her the musketeer was still here, and as her eyes focused in the gloom, she spotted him, head slumped forward on the table. Claude pulled the covers back carefully, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and searching the floor for her boots. She found them, and slipped them on, careful not to nudge any of the dozen empty wine bottles on the floor.

She found her jerkin on the chair by the bed, and slipped it on, buttoning it to the top and pulling the collar up. Athos snored on, oblivious. She approached him, feeling a wave of guilt building in her. He was gruff, and emotionless most of the time, but he'd shown her a rare kindness that not many people had. But still, he didn't understand. She had to do this. Claude picked up his knocked over wine bottle, that was dangerously close to soaking the sleeve of his shirt, and sat it up right, careful not to make a noise. And then she made for the door.

It was cold outside, snowing lightly. She pulled her collar up higher, and tied her hair back properly, it having come undone in her sleep. Where to begin? Find somewhere to hunker down in the meantime, and then start patrolling the streets until the men in cloaks showed up. A plan had already formulated in her head, she just hoped it would work. Claude double checked the knife she had wedged into her belt, and then started off across the street, her feet leaving tracks in the snow.

The cottage was a shell. The bodies were gone, but the smell of burning still remained in the air. It caught in her throat, terrifying memories rising unbidden in her mind. Flames, screaming. Mud. She pushed them away, and climbed over one of the crumbled walls, dodging under a fallen beam propped up by the remaining stone work. Claude made her way to the left side of the house, where the walls were most intact, and hunkered down in the corner. It was cold, lonely. She missed the muttering of the boys, snickering quietly, discussing their day. She could here it now, in her head, and she wasn't sure if it was a comfort or a curse.

She thought of the bed she'd just left, the warm tavern, the cloying wine they'd drunk. Constance's warm bath, smiles, laughter, company. It was too late to go back now. They'd probably wake up in the morning, notice her absence, ask around a bit and then forget about her. One less thing to worry about. She wasn't their friend, she had to remember that. No, she was just another mission for them.

But as Claude shut her eyes, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before sunrise, the cold seeping into her bones, and the smell of ash in her nose, it wasn't Thomas and the gang she thought of for comfort. Her dreams that night were full of Musketeers.


	9. Into the Lion's Den

Aramis awoke to the sound of someone pounding on his door. A loud, urgent thudding. For a second, he thought it might have been an angry husband, looking for his wife. Regrettably, it wouldn't have been the first time it had happened. But when he looked to the side, he realised that the bed was empty. He hadn't brought anyone home with him last night, in fact, he hadn't even gone out for a drink or two. So who was trying to knock his door down?

He rolled from the bed, hurriedly pulling his breeches on, not bothering with his shirt, and went to open the door. As soon as he did, a thunderous looking Athos pushed past him into his house, ignoring Aramis' confused cries. The musketeer started pacing, gloved hands clenched together. Aramis noticed that his hair was still sopping wet, no doubt from one of his early dumps of his head into an icy bucket. A quick way to clear a hangover, and not one Aramis was in a hurry to try himself.

"Is she with you? Is she here?" Athos was asking quickly, an edge of panic to his voice.

"What?" Aramis shook his head, still half asleep. "Who Claude? I thought she stayed with you last night? Why would she be here?"

"I thought-" Athos stopped, taking a breath to calm himself. "Claude was gone when I woke up this morning. She seems fond of you, I'd hoped she'd come to see you,"

Aramis felt his blood run cold. The girl was gone? Gone where? She wouldn't have left without telling them...would she? He started towards his bedroom, calling over his shoulder to his friend.

"Give me two seconds. We'll check with Porthos and d'Artagnan. Maybe she'll have turned up there,"

He quickly pulled his shirt over his head, searching the floor for his jerkin. Athos came to stand in the doorway, looking glum.

"She won't be there. She's gone. Foolish girl! Headstrong, foolish girl!" He brought a hand up, rubbing at his eyes. "It's my fault, I was too dismissive,"

"Hey!" Aramis barked, slightly shocked at the level of emotion his friend was showing. "Stop thinking like that, you weren't the only one unhappy with her continuing that crazy plan, remember?" He fastened his belts, and picked up his hat from the bed frame, perching it on his head.

Athos didn't reply.

Aramis strode over to Athos, giving him a reassuring clap on the shoulder. "We'll find her,"

But they did not find her, not at Porthos' house, nor with Constance. Claude was no where to be found. She had disappeared into the night, no trace, no sign. Athos blamed himself. Had he not been drinking, he was certain that he would have noticed, could have stopped her. No amount of consolation from his friends made him any better. Because as far as he was concerned, he'd practically signed her death warrant.

The garrison was a lively hub-bub of noise when the arrived. A small group of younger musketeers were sparring in the corner, laughing a joking, enjoying the fresh morning air. They stood in stark contrast to the black cloud that hung over the group. They climbed the stairs, Athos giving a short rap on the Captain's door, and then entered when they heard his muffled call.

"I notice the boy is not with you," Treville commented as they entered, lining up in front of his desk. "He's left to complete his task?"

"We..fear so, yes," Athos nodded.

"You fear so?" Treville's brow furrowed.

"A complication has arisen. It appears that Claude is in fact a woman,"

"A woman?" Treville exhaled a slow breath, leaning back against his chair. "We'll she fairly pulled the wool over our eyes,"

"We intended to bring her here today. To discuss how we should proceed, with this new...revelation," Aramis added. "But Claude snuck out in the early hours of the morning,"

Treville sighed, leaning forward and leaning his head on his knuckles. "Start a search. Find out where she's gone. And pray you're not too late,"

Claude sat on the steps of Notre Dame, collar pulled up against the wind. It had been a freezing cold night, and she'd nearly returned to Athos' house multiple times, the thought of the warm bed luring her in. But she had held her ground, the house around her a bitter reminder of why she'd left in the first place. She had to do this.

She was scared. Claude couldn't deny that fact. Terrified. Her lack of support from the musketeers meant she was going to have to improvise. There would be no one to jump in and save her at the last moment. No one to pull her out of the fray. She might be killed before she could even open her mouth. But there was no point worrying about that now, or at least she told herself. Better to just get it over and done with.

She picked herself up, and walked down the steps, walking between the small groups of people huddled together in the snow. She wondered idly what the musketeers would have said when they discovered her missing. Athos' face would probably have been a picture. She felt slightly guilty about that. But it wasn't her fault. She wasn't a child, and she didn't need a man to make her decisions for her. She was perfectly capable of doing that herself.

A blur of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head slightly, trying not to look too obvious, and spotted a man in a dark, weathered travelling cloak watching her. He carried a sword at his belt, as well as a pistol. Another man joined him, they exchanged a few words, and then began to walk towards her.

Claude kept moving at a leisurely pace, trying to make it look like she was picking a mark. She wove through the crowd, and the men followed, gaining on her. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat. This was it. A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and spun her around. The two men were towering over her, steel in their eyes. There was no sign of kindness, or joviality on their faces. They had a job to do. And it was about to be completed.

Before Claude could open her mouth, they were dragging her from the square, a tight grip on either shoulder, into one of the many alley's that lead from the Cathedral. She was quaking in her boots, trying hard to keep calm. They reached a narrow street with no travelers, and stopped, throwing her unceremoniously onto the ground. One of the men drew a lethal looking dagger from his belt.

"It's nothing personal, boy," He said nonchalantly, and then raised the dagger, leaning down towards her.

"W-Wait no!" Claude shouted, scrambling backwards. "I need a job, I'll d-do anything!"

The man paused for a second, frowning. He looked to his friend, who was slightly shorter, a thick fuzz growing on his chin. "Anything you say?"

"Y-yes! Anything at all, I n-need the money!"

"What do you think Splint? Shall we take him to see the boss?" The tall man asked.

"Why not?" Splint replied. "Might prove to be...entertaining,"

The taller man gave a dark chuckle that Claude did not like the sound off at all. She looked between the two of them, gulping down the panic that was rising in her throat, and then picked herself off the ground, cowering against the wall. The tall man nodded at her, and then set off. Splint took hold of her shoulder one more, and pushed her after his friend.

They walked for a good half hour, winding through the snowy streets of Paris. At one point she found herself forced into the alcove of a doorway, a grubby gloved hand pressed up against her mouth. A small group of musketeers crossed the street in front of them, stopping to ask a stall owner some questions. She didn't recognise them however, and was soon dragged out from the door, and shoved quickly down a narrow alleyway, out of the musketeer's sight.

As the houses began to grow in size, with ornate doorways and shutters on the windows, the taller man stopped. They stood outside what would have been a fairly grand house, but it had a shabby look to it, much like the men who had brought her here. The shutters were splintered and faded, and weeds grew up the wall. The tall man approached the door, knock four times in a short pattern. After a few minutes, it swung open, and they delved into the darkness inside.

It smelt like must. The floor boards creaked under Claude's feet, and as her eyes started adjusting to the gloom, she noticed the walls were mildew covered, damp and stained. There were marks on the walls, outlines where paintings had once hung. The plaster was crumbling, great chunks lying on the floor. She was pushed through a pair of great double doors into the room beyond, where a man sat, his feet propped up on the desk in front of him. He had great bags of money scattered across its surface, and one in his hand, playing with the coins inside. He looked up when they entered.

"Delvaux," The tall one gave a shallow bow, straightening again. "We have the boy,"

"So I can see Simon. I'm more concerned about the fact he isn't dead," His voice was taunting, but with a hard edge to it. Claude stood up straight, and tried not to wither under his gaze.

"He says he wants a job,"

"Does he now. And does this boy have a voice to speak for himself? What's your name boy?" Delvaux sniffed, giving Claude an appraising look.

"My name's Mud. And I don't like being called boy," Claude replied, proud of the fact she'd kept her voice from shaking.

Delvaux gave a barking laugh before his face dissolved into a harsh glare. "I'll call you whatever I like, boy," He stood from the table, strolling over to glare down at Claude. 

"You've got spirit I'll give you that,"

Claude jutted her chin out defiantly, staring the man straight in the eye. Delvaux nodded to himself, and then returned to his chair, propping his feet up once more with a sigh.

"You've made life very difficult for me Mud. Very difficult indeed. But I think I know how you can repay me for that. And there might be a few coins in it for you," He narrowed his eyes. "Have you ever killed a man before Claude?"

"No Monsieur," For the first time since arriving, there was a hesitation in Claude's voice. She swallowed hard.

Delvaux gave his barking laugh once more. "Monsieur, polite, I like that. You know who's boss. I have a job for you. Tonight. Splint will explain the details nearer the time. But for now, I'm busy. Take him to our guest room Simon, make him comfortable,"

Simon gave a nasty chuckle that Claude did not like the sound of. His hand grabbed her by the arm once more, pulling her from the room back into the hallway. They approached a panel in the wall, and Simon hit it with his fist. It sprang open, revealing a set of stairs down into the cellar. As they descended, the sound of dripping reached Claude's ears. If the main house had been damp, this place was festering. Half the floor was soaked, a steady stream of water running down one wall. There were small holes near the ceiling, letting in light from the street, but apart from that, the room was dark.

Simon chucked Claude in, and then returned to the top of the stairs. Claude heard the panel shut with a click, and with a sinking feeling, she knew that it would not opened for her. She crossed the damp floor towards one of the windows, discovered that it was at street level, and barred. A pair of feet passed outside, splashing the muddy, melted snow in on her face. She flinched away and looked around. There was no bed, no chair or tables. It was an empty room, save for a few wine wracks that had no bottles in them. A prison. Perhaps they were actually just leaving her here to die? There was not much she could do to find out but wait.

Claude crouched down by the wall, and shut her eyes, listening to the creak of the floor above her, and imagined the soft woolen blankets of Athos' bed.

Athos strode back into the Musketeer garrison, his face dark and unreadable, his friends keeping pace behind him. A group of men were leaving on patrol, and he nodded to them as they passed. They knew what they were looking for. Hopefully they would have more luck than he and his friends had had.

They'd search the city for hours, their feet tired and their moods deflated. The market had been quiet, not many people had ventured out in the cold, wet weather. There had been no cut-purses in sight, and so they'd moved on, working along the North road until they reached the burnt out cottage. There had been a single set of tracks there, leading into the ruins. When D'Artagnan had suggested that Claude had spent the remainder of the night there, Athos had stalked off back along the North road. The other's hadn't tried to reason with his temper. It was best to leave him be when he was in one of these moods.

A younger musketeer approached him across the square, giving a polite nod and removing his hat. "We spoke to a few people around Notre Dame. Some said they saw a young boy with two men, heading west. We did some door to door visits, but found nothing more,"

Aramis thanked him, and he gave a tight smile before returning to his friends. The four of them sat down at the bench, resting their tired feet. The mood was glum, and they spoke little, each caught in their own thoughts. Porthos finally broke the silence.

"Maybe we should call it a day. Start again in the morning,"

Athos glanced up at him, his gaze steely. He didn't need to speak to convey his thoughts, that look said it all.

"What good are we going to be in the dark Athos! If she's smart, she'll be hunkering down for the night, staying warm. Perhaps no news is good news," Aramis took his friends side, taking his hat off and sitting it on the table.

"She shouldn't be out at night at all. It'll be freezing," Athos grumbled.

"Blaming yourself isn't going to help her either," D'Artagnan reasoned. "I agree with the others, we should get an early start in the morning,"

With a resigned sigh, Athos finally agreed. Maybe Claude would have returned when he was out. It was a fools hope, but he clung to it.

But Claude was not there when he returned. Claude was far from comfort.

The panel door slammed open, hitting off the wall behind it. Claude jumped, eyes wide, and scrambled up against the wall. Simon and Splint entered, knowing grins on their faces. They exchanged a glance, and then stepped towards the girl cowering in the corner, who was attempting to look like she wasn't crapping herself. 

"Got a lovely little job for you," Splint chuckled. "You'll know our dear Spanish friend of course. Reason why your here. Well, lets just say he was an energetic little man. Liked to spend some time with the ladies,"

Simon snickered, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"The boss is mighty worried that he blabbed to his whore. Knew a bit too much, did our Spanish friend. And now his whore might too. You're to go make her have..." He paused, looking for the right words. "An unfortunate accident,"

"I have to kill a prostitute?" Claude squeaked. "Tonight?"

"Why not tonight? Tonight's as good as any other night," Simon sneered.

"Y-Yeah," Claude nodded. "Why not. Where do I go?"

"With us. We'll be coming along, make sure nothing untoward happens," Splint grinned.

Claude had a horrible feeling that she knew what that meant. It meant 'make sure you don't escape before we can kill you too'. She swallowed hard, and took a step towards them. Simon grabbed her by the arm once more, in fact it was becoming a little tiresome, and shoved her up the steps. The house was a hubbub of chatter now. Men were walking down the hall, laughing between themselves. A group passed Claude, watching as she walked by. The grins on their faces did nothing to ease her nerves.

It was dark outside, but it was no longer snowing. A thin, cold drizzle fell instead, melting what was left of the snow into a muddy slush. The street was rough and slippery, but they soon found themselves outside of large building. There were women hanging out of the windows, beckoning the passerbys to come and join them. They wore tight bodices and bright lipstick, and their giggles and calls wrung out in the cold night air. Splint stopped on the corner of the street, the brothel in sight.

"Right, you go in there, ask for the blonde one. There's only one of them. Take this and pretend you're a paying customer," He handed Claude a small money purse, which jingled with coins. "Don't even think about running off with it, our boys are all around here," He warned, his voice deadly.

"And what happens after?" Claude asked.

Simon gave a chuckle. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Get it done," He shoved Claude towards the brothel.

It was hot inside. Hot and stuffy, with flickering candles all over the place. There was a small front room downstairs, a number of men sitting around, with attractive women sitting on their knees, whispering into their ears. Claude tried not to make eye contact with any of them. They looked the sort that would kill a man for doing so. There was thudding noise on the ceiling, and she gave a nervous glance upwards.

"Can I help you young man?"

She turned around and found herself face to face with a middle aged woman, her breasts squeezed into a tight bodice, lips blood red. She was large, with a kindly face, but looked Claude up and down with a dismissive air. Claude held up the bag of coin.

"I'm looking for a girl. Blonde. I'm willing to pay," Was that how you went about it? The woman seemed satisfied however.

"Ah! Up the stairs, last door on your right," She flashed what she must have thought was a seductive smile. "Enjoy yourself,"

Claude forced a smile back, and then headed for the stairs. The creaked under her weight as she climbed, and when she reached the top floor, a corridor stretch out in front of her. Her hands were shaking now, a cold sweat breaking out on her skin. How on earth was she going to get out of this. There was no way she could kill the girl. But if she didn't...how was she going to get out? The corridor felt a mile long.

As she passed each door, she caught snippets of noise from each, long drawn out moans and cries of ecstasy. She felt a fierce blush rising in her neck, quickly rising to her cheeks. Claude had never been close to being intimate with a man. Being disguised as a boy for most of her life had made if fairly difficult for her to make her interests known. There had been a few boys in her younger days, but she'd never worked up the courage to tell them her secret, and they'd left after a few months. She'd pretty much resigned herself to the fact she would die alone. And the way things were going, it would probably be sooner rather than later. Another sound came from the door to her left, giggling, and a man's voice. She hurried along the remainder of the corridor, and entered the door on the right.

Her hand poised at her belt, hovering over the dagger that lay there, and then dropped. She couldn't kill this girl, wouldn't. She'd just have to think of a plan of escape. The blonde rose from her seat, in front of the mirror she had been poised at, and turned, a coy smile already on her face.

"Ah, Monsieur, how may I be of service?"

Claude froze, unable to move. This couldn't be possible. Her mother was dead, she'd watched her die, years ago, in squalor, coughing up blood. Her face had been pale, sunken, her eyes ringed with dark, sickly skin. This girl in front of Claude looked fairly healthy in comparison, as healthy as she could look for her profession. And she was younger too. So why did it feel like she was looking at her long dead mother?

The penny dropped. How long had it been? Over ten years, definitely. She'd been so sure that Clarice would be dead by now, whether from disease or by the hand of some enraged customer. Not still alive, and working in the very brothel that the Spanish envoy had visited.

Clarice's brow furrowed, looking confused. "Do I know you? Have we met before?"

"Y-you could say that," Claude stuttered, wide eyed. Things had just gotten even more complicated.

Because how was she going to get herself out of this alive without any harm coming to her sister?


	10. Falling

"Clarice?" Claude asked, her voice thick with emotion. She took a step into the room, but the blonde woman backed away.

"How do you know my name?" She asked. "Who are you?"

"It's me! It's Claude! I mean Claudette!" The younger sister corrected herself, pulling her hair out of its tie and letting it settle around her shoulders.

Clarice took a step forward, narrowing her eyes as she looked at Claude. After staring for a few seconds, her eyes opened wide, and she huffed in a great breath of air. "Claudette? It is you!"

Claude found herself being embraced by the woman, a hug that nearly knocked her off her feet. It had been a while since she'd been held like that, and slowly wrapped her arms around her sister's back. She was warm, and smelt strongly of some perfume. Closer now, she noticed that her dress was shoddily repaired, ripped in quite a few places. And she was thin. Not as thin as Claude, but hardly well nourished. Clarice pulled away suddenly.

"Why are you in a brothel?" She frowned. "And why are you dressed as a boy?"

"I could ask you the same question!" Claude pouted back. "And it's easier being a boy, people leave me alone a lot more!"

Clarice pursed her lips. "I wouldn't be so sure, we get all sorts coming here. Now, let me look at you,"

The way she fussed made her look even more like their mother. The thin lipped expression, the frown. Her blonde hair was straight from their mother too, light and beautiful. Claude had inherited the dirty light brown of their father, as well as the rest of his features. Round faced and boyish, she was far from the beauty that stood in front of her. Only their eyes were similar, a stormy blue colour. Clarice held Claude at arms length, looking her up and down.

"These clothes look practically new, who did you steal them off?"

"I didn't steal them!" Claude protested. "I was given them by...by some..friends of mine,"

Clarice laughed. "What friends do you have that could afford leather this thick?"

Claude frowned in reply. It had been over ten years, and within five minutes, Clarice was already making her feel stupid. It was a habit that Claude had forgotten, nostalgic for the old days, and one that she'd hoped Clarice would have grown out of. Getting fed up of Clarice's fussing, she brushed her off gently, taking a moment to peak outside the door. The corridor was empty, but she could hear raised voices downstairs.

"You still haven't answered me, why are you-" Clarice started to ask, but Claude interrupted her.

"You served a Spanish man in the last week didn't you?"

"Well...yes but I don't see-"

"There are men here to kill you. They think the Spanish man told you something, secrets or something he overheard, I don't know, and that's beside the point. Clarice, you need to hide!" Claude explained quickly.

Clarice looked noticeably flustered. "I don't understand-"

"Listen to me! Hide yourself, and first chance you can, run to the Musketeer garrison. Ask for Athos, Aramis or Porthos. Tell them I was here, and tell them to look for a rundown house in the west of the city,"

"That's not much to go on," Clarice scoffed.

"Well I don't know any more!" Claude snapped back. "If you don't tell them, I'm dead Clarice! Now hide!"

Clarice looked around the room, picking up her skirts. There was a small closet in the corner, and she ran to it, opening the doors and bundling herself in. Claude ran over, taking hold of the doors and shutting them behind her. Clarice shot a hand out, stopping her before she could shut them fully.

"Claude," She looked imploringly at her sister. "Be careful,"

"You too," Claude shut the closet door, and ran for the corridor.

But when she opened the door a crack, she found that there were footsteps climbing the stairs. She quickly shut it as quietly as possible, and ran over to the window. The shutters were closed, and when she swung them open, the ground seemed far below. There were men outside, right below her, looking around at street level. Their hoods were up covering her faces, but she could tell they were Delvaux's men. She carefully climbed up onto the window ledge, and looked up, finding an overhanging piece of roof above. Her head was spinning, heart pounding painfully loud in her ears. Reaching up, she grabbed onto the edge of the roof, and tried to haul herself up.

Her arms were burning in protest, her left, burnt one causing the most trouble. She suppressed a low groan, pulling with all her might. Her legs flailed below her, and there was a slam as the door to the room burst open. A cry of echoed below, but she was up, with a final effort, pulling herself onto the roof. She looked around. This was a bad idea. The ground seemed miles below, and a wave of dizziness came over her. It was a very bad time to find out she was scared of heights. A noise at the window below told her it would be long until she had company, so she forced herself to cross the slippery, wet roof.

Her feet were sliding out from under her, but she kept moving, scrambling along as fast as possible. The edge was approaching fast, with a short gap between the brothel and the next building. She jumped, hitting the side of the roof hard, her legs hanging off. After another desperate struggling, arms tiring, she pulled herself up, ignoring the ache in her ribs. The next few buildings were connected, and she managed to speed up to an almost run, feet still sliding. Using the chimneys to steady herself, she checked behind. There was man on the brothel roof, struggling as much as she had to keep his feet. Claude kept moving.

Another gap was coming up. She quickened to a sprint, launching herself off and landing on the next roof on her feet. Once of her ankles gave beneath her, and she hissed, testing her weight on it. It throbbed, but she could still walk. A gunshot echoed behind her and she flinched. The man on the roof had drawn his pistol, but he was too far away for a good shot. She heard voices shouting in the street below, footsteps running. Claude gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain in her ankle, and set off at a run again, making her way across the rooftops of Paris, searching for a safe way down.

Clarice had waited until the men had left the room, one climbing onto the roof after her younger sister, and the other heading down the stairs, back onto the street. She'd peaked out of the closet, finding the coast clear, and then ran down the stairs, caught up in the flow of screaming women that were running from the men with guns. They were everywhere, bursting down doors, dragging the patrons out in their small cloths. A fight had broken out between one of the attackers and a regular in the main room downstairs. There was blood on the floor, and as she ran past, one of the men noticed her, calling out. She ignored him, running out of the door, hoisting her trailing skirts from the mud.

It wasn't far from the brothel to the musketeer garrison, in fact, they occasionally got patrons coming to them after work. Clarice was a favourite with some of the younger men, and she would have been the first to admit that she wasn't too disappointed when they picked her. There certainly were a good few lookers at the garrison. The streets were muddy, and difficult to walk down in her heels, and she found herself slipping and sliding as she tried to hurry. She checked over her shoulder constantly, but she seemed to have lost the men from the brothel. No doubt they were preoccupied by her sister on the roof.

As she neared the garrison, she spotted a group of men, heading into a tavern on the street ahead. They wore leather jerkins and feather hats, and the pauldrons on their shoulders signified their position. Musketeers. She cried out, hurrying through the mud towards them.

Aramis was the first to notice the woman's cry. Ever astute to the ladies in need, he looked up, searching for the source of the noise, only to find a blonde waving at them from down the street. He motioned to his friends, who were all looking thoroughly miserable. Athos in particular was looking forward to drowning his sorrows quite thoroughly, and at the sight of the woman, he had to actively not scowl at her.

"Help! Help my sister-" Clarice was out of breath, and stopped for a moment, breasts heaving as she gasped in air.

"Take your time Mademoiselle," Aramis told her gently. "What appears to be the problem?"

"My sister, my sister sent me to find musketeers, she just turned up, haven't seen her in years, but she started spouting this nonsense, and I almost didn't believe her, thought she was making it up, but she looked terrified, so I did as she asked, and now-" The blonde was talking extremely quickly, and the musketeers were having trouble keeping up. D'Artagnan held up a hand, stopping her for a moment.

"Slow down, slow down. What's your name?"

"Clarice. My sister, Claudette-"

"Claude?" Athos spoke suddenly, loudly, cutting her off. "You're Claude's sister?"

She nodded. "She said some men wanted me dead. Told me to ask for, oh who was it again!" She became flustered, holding her hand to her head. "You know, I've gone and forgot their names!"

"Listen, we know Claude," Aramis soothed. "Where is she now?"

"Why, she was on the roof when I left," Clarice stated, eyes wide with worry.

"The roof?!" Athos exclaimed. "Where is your establishment Mademoiselle?"

"Not far from here, a few streets back the way I came, near the tanner's quarter,"

"D'Artagnan," Athos commanded. "Take this lady inside, see that she's fed. We'll search for Claude,"

He started off down the street without another look, the others having to break into a run to catch up.

Claude's ankle was throbbing painfully. Each time she put her weight on it, it sent a wave of agony through her leg. It didn't help that kept slipping of course. But still she ran on, across the roof tops. The further she got however, the wider the streets seemed to be getting. She stood at the edge of the roof she was on, looking down. It was too far to jump, and too high to drop. But the little cobblers across the street had a small porch above the door, big enough for her to land on. She might just make it. But she had to be fast. There cries following her along the streets were getting louder. She'd managed to lose them a couple of times, but they'd spotted her again fairly quickly. She had to get to ground level, and hide somewhere.

Claude backed up a bit, taking a deep breath. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. She whispered a silent prayer, and then started to run as quickly as she dared along the roof, launching herself off the edge, arms flailing. She hit the roof of the porch hard, the wind knocking out of her. Her head slammed into the slates, stars dancing before her eyes, and then she rolled off the edge, landing in the mud with a thud.

The blacked out for a few seconds, and when she came too, there were footsteps running towards her. A voice cried out, her name? She couldn't be sure. Everything was spinning, the houses, the dark night sky. She struggled to sit up, but slumped over, nausea rising in her throat. She reached a shaking hand up to her forehead, and found it sticky with blood. The footsteps were getting closer. Claude started dragging herself along the ground.

A pair of hands grasped her. She kicked out blindly, hearing a man's voice swear as it connected, but another pair of hands hoisted her to her feet. Her vision was doubled, still going round in circles, but she could make out the furious face of Splint.

"You're in deep shit boy," he hissed, and began dragging her along the street.

Someone was shouting to the side, but there was a clash of steel, and shots fired from pistols, muffling the noise. The light was slowly dying from her eyes, as she felt herself sinking back into the dark. She struggled weakly, pathetically, and then there it was again. A shout, her name, yes, they were definitely calling her name. Who was that? The voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it. It called again.

"Athos?" She slurred weakly, and then the darkness took here completely.

The musketeers had followed the commotion from the brothel, fighting past the crowd of screaming prostitutes into the streets beyond. There were people in the streets, pointing and talking loudly, a buzz of interest filling the air as they passed. There had been a boy on the roof, that much was clear. And men. Men running after him, on the roofs and on the ground. The three men burst into a sprint, rushing through the narrow streets.

They caught glimpses of the men in cloaks, but for now, their interest was not with them for the moment, and the men didn't seem to notice the musketeers. Aramis caught sight of a figure on the roof up ahead, calling to his friends, and they tried to press on. The streets were getting busier thought, the spectacle bring people from their taverns and homes.

They reached the end of a long street, and sure enough, up ahead, a short figure stood on the edge of the roof. There were others ahead of them however, running towards her. She disappeared from sight for a second, and then reappeared at speed, lunging off the roof and landing on the porch opposite, smashing into it. The musketeers watched in horror as she slid off the roof, hitting the ground below heavily.

"Claude!" Athos called in alarm, finding a burst of speed.

But more cloaked figures were emerging from the side streets, surrounding the body ahead. A pair approached the girl's body as she crawled through the mud, hauling her up, shaking her. Her head was slumped forward, clearly injured, the fight left her. Athos hit the wall of figures, drawing his sword and beginning to hack his way through. Dalvaux' men responded in turn, drawing their own swords and launching an aggressive attack. Porthos stopped, planting his feet wide and pulling out his pistol, blowing a shot into the nearest man before drawing his massive sword and lunging into the fray. Aramis had pulled his musket from his back, aiming carefully, claiming a casualty for himself before joining his friends.

Athos tried to push through, calling out one final time as he watched Splint hoisting Claude into a side street, out of view. He took a deep breath, removing his hat and taking a step back. Better to dispatch his enemies quickly, efficiently, so he could press on, than throw himself at an immovable wall. The first man dived at him, but his sword was quickly deflected by the musketeer, who pressed forward with an attack, slashing the backs of the man's legs and leaving him crying on the ground. His sword flashed forward once more, at lightening speed, dispatching another man with ease. He did not hold back as he had done during Claude's training sessions, for that was what he had been forced to do, but attacked with devastating grace, his face grave, and thunderous.

An attacker appeared to his left, but vanished in a cry as Porthos barreled into him, sending him bodily into a nearby wall where he crumbled, slumping to the ground. Aramis parried an attacker, giving him a hard shove and slashing at his back. He looked around, waiting for his next opponent, but found none. The cloaked men had retreated, disappearing as suddenly as they had arrived, and taking Claude with them. He approached his friends, who were both panting slightly, but not entirely out of breath.

"We need to go back and talk to Claude's sister, find out what else she said to her,"

"And soon," Porthos added "Because I don't think the girl's got much time left,"

Porthos was terrifyingly correct. Not that Claude knew this, as she awoke to find herself once again inside the musty, run down house. Her head was still spinning, thudding behind her eyeballs like someone was taking a hammer to it. Her ribs were aching, as well as her right shoulder. Something wasn't quite right there. Dislocation, or a break, she didn't know. All she was sure of was that it was damn painful.

She tried to move her head, to look around, but it sent a wave of dizziness through her, making her groan feebly. As she did do, the sound of footsteps on the squeaky wooden floor approached, and a sharp kick to the ribs was delivered by a boot. She grunted, trying to shuffle away, but firm hands grabbed her, lifting her bodily off the ground.

"So you thought you could trick me eh?" Dalvaux was so close she could feel his spit on her face, smell the reek of his foul breath. "Thought you could steal my money, leave the whore alive and run for it?"

Claude was thrown to ground. She rolled over, clawing at the wooden floor boards, trying to crawl away. Splinters came away under her nails, jagging into the soft skin. A foot stood on her back, pressing a painful weight into her spine.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself boy?" Came the mocking voice above. "Shouldn't you be begging for your life?"

The weight on Claude's back vanished, and she found herself being dragged up off the floor once more. Dalvaux took her by the throat, and then shoved her backwards. Her feet caught on the floor, and she fell back, slamming off the desk behind her with another grunt. Dalvaux drew the knife from his belt, flipping it nonchalantly in his hand, and then rested the cool metal on the soft skin of her throat. Claude's breath caught in her throat, she could move, couldn't breathe. Her eyes were wide, desperately trying to stop the unspent tears of terror from falling. Dalvaux began to press the knife harder, but then stopped.

"No. Too easy," He removed the knife, stepping back to look at her. "Tell me, why are you here boy?"

"You- you killed my friends," Claude spat out. "So I'm going to kill you,"

Dalvaux' barking laugh echoed in the old house, but his face was deadly serious. "You? Kill me? I don't think so." A look of mock concern crossed his face. "You're injured however. Your shoulder, does it hurt?"

The man lent forward, pressing one hand against Claude's right shoulder, slowly applying pressure. Claude stifled a gasp, gritting her teeth together to stop herself from crying out. The pain was lightning, arching through her arm, bring a new wave of dizziness with it. Dalvaux gave a chuckle, removing his hand. The knife spun in his fingers once more.

A knock at the door interrupted him. Splint entered, followed by Simon. They looked sheepish, edgy.

"The whore," Simon muttered. "It seems she's with the Musketeers,"

Dalvaux swore loudly, slamming the knife into the wood beside Claude's hand. She flinched away, but the table blocked her retreat.

"I'm afraid I have your mess to clear up," Dalvaux spat at her. "I'll deal with you later. Splint, chuck the boy back in his hole, let him stew in his own filth for a while,"

Claude found herself in Splint's hands once more, dragged into the hallway. He hammered on panel, swinging open, and them shoved her, not even bothering to enter the cellar himself, before spitting after her. Claude tumbled down the steps, each stair sending agony through her body, and landed in a pile at the bottom, the wet floor soaking into her clothes. The panel closed with a slam, and she was left in the darkness of her prison.

It was here, in the damp squalor, that Claude finally began to cry.


	11. Last Hope

After watching the others leave, D'Artagnan had quickly ushered the woman into the tavern, finding a quiet table near the back where they could sit in privacy. A few of the patrons looked his way, eyes flicking to the woman, and he found himself gripping his sword hilt nervously. The attention didn't last longer than a lingering look however, and they were left in peace.

The young man ordered drinks, and a bowl of hot broth for Clarice, who was huddled in the corner, looking around warily. D'Artagnan sat down opposite, giving a small smile of reassurance, while watching her, appraising.

She didn't look much like Claude, he decided. The same eyes, maybe, but her hair was different, and her facial features softer, a little button nose and tight lips. She held herself differently too, but then they led completely different lives. Perhaps he just wasn't quite used to the idea of Claude being a woman. And see her sister wearing a dress really pointed out the differences. A pretty revealing dress at that.

D'Artagnan took a swig of his wine, feeling the colour rising in his cheeks. This was no time for such thoughts. He had a job to do.

"Will Claudette be alright?" Clarice broke the silence. "She was on the roof for God's sake!" She fidgeted with her spoon, stirring the broth round and round, untouched.

"The others will do their best. Which I can assure you, is as good as it comes," He smiled again.

Clarice tried to smile back, but her bottom lip wobbled slightly. She took a deep breath, staring down at the broth.

"Why don't you tell me what Claude said before she left," D'Artagnan suggested gently.

Clarice gave a small nod, closing her eyes for a second, trying to remember. "She- she told me who she was. I didn't recognise her, all dressed up like a boy," Her voice was disapproving. "And then she said that people were coming to kill me. Because of one of my customers, a Spanish man. And that I had to find some musketeers, tell them she'd been there, and to look for a run down house in the west of the city. That's all she said,"

"Everything?"

"Yes everything!" Clarice whined. "I asked her more about the house, but she didn't know. Oh I do hope she's okay, I've only just found her again!"

She dropped the spoon heavily into the broth, splashing chunks heavily across the table, and sat back, pouting. Clarice really was quite different from her sister, in more ways than just her appearance. D'Artagnan was beginning to feel like he was dealing with a child, instead of a grown woman. Well, maybe they weren't that different after all.

"The Spanish envoy. Did he mention anything to you?" He ventured, hoping to pull her attention back.

But Clarice let out a louder huff, her pout becoming more pronounced. "No! Everybody keeps asking me, he didn't say anything, he was far too preoccupied, I can assure you that!"

D'Artagnan sighed. The men behind this were clearly covering up loose ends, whether they posed a threat or not. He only hoped that the others got to Claude before they did. He leaned back in his chair, taking a swig of wine, and looking around, checking the crowd. But once again, the patrons didn't seem to be anything more than slightly interested in the woman sitting in front of him. All seemed well. He jumped as a hand grabbed his own, and spun back to Clarice, who was holding it in hers, caressing his thumb with hers.

"I must thank you Monsieur," She purred. "It is comfort enough to know that Claude has such good and handsome friends looking out for her,"

D'Artagnan cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes- well- you're welcome Mademoiselle," He choked out, gently removing his hand from hers. She was flashing him a charming smile, which he raised an eyebrow at, and then looked away.

The door to the tavern slammed open, and he spun around, ready for a fight, rising from his seat and drawing his sword half way from its scabbard. But D'Artagnan recognised the figures entering, and slid his sword home again, watching. Three people. No Claude.

They stopped at the door, looking around the busy room until they spotted their friend and the woman, making their way quickly through the crowd towards them. Clarice looked up at their approach, her face alight until she noticed that they didn't have her sister with them. Her smile dropped from her face.

"Claudette? Where is Claudette?" She asked loudly, flustered. A few of the nearby patrons looked over.

The three men looked between themselves, faces dark. Aramis was finally the one to speak. "They took her,"

"No!" Clarice cried, her pain evident. "You said you'd find her!"

"What happened?" D'Artagnan asked quietly.

"We saw her fall from the roof," Porthos muttered, trying not to draw anymore attention to them. "They got to her before we did, dragged her off,"

"Dragged her where is what I want to know," Aramis added. "Did you find out what she said?"

D'Artagnan nodded to the woman behind him who was fanning herself with her hand, sucking in great breaths. "Clarice here says that Claude mentioned a run down house in the west,"

"That's all we have to go on?" Athos joined the conversation at last. His eyes were dark, a steel edge to his voice.

"I'm afraid so,"

Athos gave a frustrated grunt, kicking the table leg roughly. The wine bottles toppled over, and Clarice gave a surprised yelp, jumping out of the way of their spray. The musketeer leaned forward, resting his fists on the table, head down. His friends gave each other a concerned look between them, Aramis about to open his mouth, but Athos stood once more, gaining composure.

"We start searching now. No time to waste," He turned to Clarice. "Your establishment should be safe for now Mademoiselle. The attack caused too much attention, they wouldn't dare return tonight. We will come for you when we have word of your sister,"

And with that, he turned, storming once more from the tavern.

Days passed. Or it may have just been a few minutes. Time had no meaning to Claude, fading in and out of consciousness on the floor of the cellar. Her head was on fire, throbbing over and over, a never ending cycle of pain and fear. Images flashed before her eyes, the burning house, Mud's body, Dalvaux' knife. Horrific scenes, merging together in fire and blood. She screamed, in her head, but all that left her was a pathetic, mumbling moan.

Claude gained consciousness again for a few seconds, and started to cry once more, as she had done each time before. Her face was sticky with tears, big fat drops falling to her chin. She brought her knees up slowly, wrapping her arms around them, and buried her face into her legs, blocking out the light, trying to forget her circumstances. Her mouth was parched, her tongue dry. When was the last time she'd had something to drink? A day ago maybe? She'd need something soon. Claude looked across at the water running down the wall. She'd seen first hand the sort of things drinking dirty water did to the body. Many a boy had fallen ill, even dying when times had been tough. No, she'd stick it out, wait as long as she could. She might be dead in the next few hours anyway.

And then she heard the voices. Talking quietly outside, four, male voices that sounded so painfully familiar. For a few seconds, she was sure she was dreaming, and then the noise of a fist thudding on the door to the house echoed down to the cellar.

Footsteps. Footsteps up the stairs, above. Claude called out, but her voice was strangled, weak. She scrambled onto her feet, but collapsed quickly, with no strength left in her. The girl began to drag herself to the foot of the steps, clinging on the first. Her tired arms were aching in protest as she began to haul herself up, desperately trying to call out, but to no avail. The footsteps sounded outside of the panel door again, passing, and then the front door shut.

A choking sob burst out of Claude's mouth, catching in her throat. That was that. Her last hope, gone. She was dead meat. Sooner or later, she'd been dragged out, probably beaten, her throat slit and her body dumped. Or perhaps they would leave her here until she withered away and died, starving, mad. Why, oh why did she go to the market that day? Everything that had happened had been hinged on her actions there. She'd been dead the moment she set foot there.

The voices. The voices were still outside, muttering together. Claude sat up, wiping at her face hurriedly, and then slid back down the stairs she'd crawled up. She shuffled on her hands and knees across the wet ground, reaching the wall, and pulled herself up with a grimace, clutching onto the bars that opened onto street level. She pulled herself up, with all her might, hanging from the metal, using it to hold herself up. There. The boots across the street, four of them, clustered together.

"H-help," She tried to call, her voice rasping. She gave another choked sob, and tried again. "Help!"

Nothing. They didn't turn around, didn't look her way. She reached a hand through, clawing at the mud outside, waving her hand, pressing her pounding forehead against the iron bars. The feet were shuffling in the mud, and then, together, they began to move off, down the street, leaving her to die.

"No!" She moaned, digging her nails into the dirt. "No please!"

A pair of boots stopped. And then suddenly, they were rushing forward, across the dirty street. There was a shout, a cry for attention, and then Aramis' face appeared outside of the bars as he stopped down.

"Claude! Are you alright?" He reached a gloved hand forward, gently touching her head through the bars. "You're bleeding!"

There was scrambling of feet, and the others appeared around Aramis, blocking the light out slightly, concern etched on each of their faces.

"I knew that bastard was hiding something!" Porthos spat viciously. "Too slimy by far!"

"The panels," Claude gasped, her voice still rasping, quiet. "The panels in the hall, one of them's a door,"

"We'll have you out in two minutes," D'Artagnan told her, standing. The others went to follow, but Claude shot her hand out, grasping.

"No please, don't leave me!" She begged, tears threatening again, her voice thick.

Athos crouched down once more, taking her pale hand in his gloved one, and gripping it tight. "We're not going to leave you Claude. We need to get you out of there,"

"He's going to kill me!"

"He's not. I'm not going to let him,"

The tears were streaming down Claude's face now, and she was clutching onto Athos' hand painfully tight. She reached out a second hand, covering her first.

"I'm sorry I tried to cut you purse Athos. I'm sorry I ran away. I'm sorry I got you involved in this mess," Her voice was pleading, her eyes shining with a raw emotion. Athos felt a deep rage settle in his chest as he watched her, this hardy street girl reduced to sniveling, bleeding, pathetic wreck. He bent his head, pressing his mouth to the back of her hand, watching her eyes widen slightly.

"It is I who should apologise. We should have been here sooner. But we're not going to leave you Claude. Not this time. You don't have to do this alone,"

Claude gave a whimpering hiccup, pressing her forehead against the bars once more and screwing her eyes shut, taking a deep breath. She had to believe him. There was nothing left she could do. Reluctantly, Claude let go of Athos' hand, and slid to the floor.

No, all she could do was wait.

Dalvaux sat up straight, his feet sliding off the table in front of him. Someone was knocking at the door again, only this time, their knocks were heavy, insistent. Who would it be this time? He'd only just gotten rid of those stupid musketeers. They'd turned up in the early hours of the morning, insisting that they search the house. For what, they didn't say, but he had a fair idea. They wouldn't find that boy though. He was safely locked in the basement, and re could rot there for all Dalvaux cared.

He'd put on his poshest accent, sending Simon, his smartest looking man to the door to answer. A merchant, moving into the city with his wife for the first time. That had been his cover story. He'd arrived ahead of her to find a house, and make it suitable for his beautiful woman. And my wasn't there a lot of work to do! No, he'd not heard hide nor hair of a young boy, and yes, he'd contact them if he did.

And with that they'd left. After a thorough search of his rooms of course, checking in cupboards, behind musty curtains. But there was nothing to find upstairs. He'd waved them off with a simpering goodbye, and sauntered back into his office, kicking his feet up and grabbing a bottle of brandy. It was a good job most of the men had been out searching for the whore. At least he could pass Simon off as his man servant.

But here he was again, listening to someone pounding on the door. Simon entered the room, looking at him warily. His boss' temper had been hot, touchy. He obviously didn't want to be on the wrong end of it. Dalvaux waved at him, sending him to the door, and sat his bottle down listening. There was the sound of the door creaking, and then a thud followed by a strangled cry. Dalvaux launched himself to his feet, opening the drawer of his desk, taking his pistol out and stuffing it into his belt, before grabbing his dagger. The door opened, and two men entered, the youngest of the group, and the big man, the one with a scar over one eye. The larger one drew his pistol.

"Which panel," He snarled.

Dalvaux feigned ignorance, putting on what he thought was a convincing nervous stutter. "Please Monsieur, I have no idea-"

"Enough of that crap," Porthos snapped. "Which panel is Claude behind?"

Dalvaux straightened up. "Really, there's been a misunderstanding, I don't know a Claude,"

"Funny that, because we just spoke to someone in your cellar!" D'Artagnan had drawn his sword, pointing it towards the con-man.

He could hear hammering in the hall, the other men hitting at the wooden panels. This wasn't going to end well. There wasn't much point keeping this act up. He gave a sigh, relaxing slightly, head hung in defeat.

"Alright, you got me," His voice was jovial. "But surely you great Musketeers, the King's men, don't want to bother yourselves with some street rat? Let me take care of him for you,"

Porthos' eyes narrowed in fury. "You slimy little shi-"

The door behind Dalvaux burst open, and Splint stepped in, sword raised. Dalvaux squinted at him, turning to look out the main doors to the hall, and then back to Splint in confusion. "How did you get in here?"

"Climbed through the window, didn't I?" Splint replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Dalvaux watched him for a few more seconds, and then shrugged.

"An even fight gentlemen," He bowed, and then jumped at Porthos, who blocked the swing of his sword with his pistol and then drew his own.

Out in the hall, Aramis and Athos were battering on the wooden panels, their gloved fists sending echoes down the empty corridor. Simon lay slumped on the ground at the door, a victim of Athos' punch. A trickle of blood had ran from his nose, over his lips. He probably wouldn't be waking up any time soon.

Athos was gritting his teeth painfully hard, trying to listen over the sound of their knocks for some noise, something to tell him he had the right panel. He could hear Porthos and D'Artagnan talking in the main room, and the sound of swords being drawn. Hopefully they would be left alone long enough to get the girl and leave, dragging that monster Dalvaux with them of course.

There was a click behind him, and Aramis gave a victorious cry. Athos looked over his shoulder, to find a wooden panel had opened, revealing a dark set of stairs down into the basement. He hurried over, and followed Aramis into the gloom.

The smell was the first thing they noticed. A stink of damp and mold, and the sound of steady trickling water. As they reached the bottom of the steps, their boots slapped into cold water, a large puddle on the cold stone floor. They stood for a few seconds, letting their eyes adjust to the gloom. There was only a thin strip of light, coming in from the barred windows at the top of the walls. Aramis was the first to spot Claude.

She was slouched against the wall below the window to their right, eyes half open, struggling to focus on them. She tried to sit up, but produced a low whimper, sliding back into place, clutching at her shoulder. She was soaking, having been lying unconscious in the puddle at the foot of the stairs for a while, and filthy, her face muddy. As Athos looked down at the girl in shock, the rage in his stomach grew once more, and he took a deep steadying breath.

Aramis wordlessly crossed the room, stooping down. He wrapped his arms under Claude's legs, and around her back, and hoisted her up, with little effort. She didn't weigh much after all. Her head slumped against his chest, but she continued to fight to stay conscious, her dazed eyes on Athos the whole time. He felt her gaze burning into him, haunted, the fear evident in her eyes. The look she gave was clear. It said don't leave me. And he had no intention of doing so. He crossed the room to her, taking her hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze. Claude seemed to relax, and tucked her head further into Aramis' chest.

Footsteps above them spurred them back into action, and they hurried up the stairs to the hall. They were not alone. Four men had entered through the front door, swords raised, and three more were already making their way into the office room. Athos drew his sword, staring down the men in the hall. Aramis began to back up, heading for one of the doors to their left, leading into numerous moldy, damp rooms. He threw the door open, it slamming against the wall behind, and spotted a dust covered, faded bed, it's rich sheets a shadow of their old worth. He hurried forward, placing Claude down on the bed. Her head, he could see now, was stained red, her hair matted with blood, and her face covered in it too.

"I'm going to have to fight," He told her quickly. "But I'm not letting any one through this door,"

She gave a nod, and he started to hurry away.

"Aramis,"

He stopped at the sound of her hoarse voice, turning around. She forced a watery smile, but the pain and fear were still in her eyes.

"It's good to see you,"

He gave a small chuckle, and tipped his hat at her, before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

It was chaos outside. Athos was fighting with two men in the narrow corridor, slowing their approach to the office behind him. A third lay unconscious on the ground at his feet, but the fourth had made a break for Dalvaux' room. Aramis quickly stepped out behind him, taking his pistol from his belt, and knocking the man over the back of the head with the butt.

"Can you deal with these two?" Aramis called to his friend, who was slowly forcing the men back towards the door.

"I'll take pleasure in it!" Athos called back, sticking his leg out and tripping one of the men, who toppled to the ground. The other stumbled, and raised his sword just in time to parry a blow. He didn't manage to block the next one however, which caught him on the thigh, before he was kicked backwards, onto the ground. Athos spun around to face the other musketeer. "Done," He raised his eyebrows slightly, and then followed Aramis into the office.

Porthos and D'Artagnan stood surrounded my groaning and unconscious men. There were only a few of them left, all of which were looking decidedly nervous, glancing between each other when the two musketeers entered. Porthos spun his sword in his hand, and then lunged at the nearest man, who tried to parry it, but crumbled under the weight of the blow. He skittered backwards across the floor, and received a kick to the face, knocking him out. D'Artagnan circled another, trading a few blows with him, before knocking his sword clean out of his hands, and pointing his own at the man's neck. There was a clatter of metal, and the remaining men dropped their swords, raising their hands and kneeling in defeat.

"Where's Dalvaux?" Athos asked, looking around at the unconscious men.

Porthos and D'Artagnan exchanged glances. "I thought he was amongst this lot. It got pretty intense for a moment," Porthos admitted.

D'Artagnan hurried forward, opening the door behind the office. Beyond lay a small drawing room, with not other exits. A window lay wide open, the dusty, faded curtains blowing in the breeze.

"Claude!" Aramis darted back the way they came, hurrying to the bedroom he'd left the girl in. He burst in, the other's at his heels, and then kicked the door frame, ignoring the pain in his foot. The bed was empty.

Claude looked up as the door creaked open, relieved that the musketeer was returning. Her relief slowly turned to horror, as Dalvaux sauntered in, his face furious, a deep cut down his left cheek. He crossed the room, grabbing Claude with a snarl, and dragged her from the bed, covering her mouth to cover her cries. Claude tried to scramble from his grasp, but she was weak, her limbs refusing to cooperate. There was nothing she could do, but be dragged from the room. There were voices in the office, her friends were there, just out of reach. She pulled on Dalvaux's hand desperately, screaming into his palm with her ragged voice. A prick of cold touched her neck. His dagger. Defeated, she stopped struggling.

There was horse outside, waiting for them. Dalvaux shoved Claude roughly towards it, and she landed heavily on her hands and knees, pain lancing up her injured shoulder. He pulled his pistol from his belt, aiming it at her.

"Get on," He spat.

Claude slipped a shaking hand down to her boots, grasping the hilt of her hidden knife. She tightened her grip, and pulled it out as she rose, careful to conceal it from view. The hilt slipped up the sleeve of her jerkin, and she grasped the blade lightly, holding it between her palm and fingers, the cold metal biting into the skin. A hand grabbed her again, shaking her.

"Come on boy, get on!"

"Don't even think about it," Came the cold voice of Athos behind them. The musketeers stood on the top step, in the doorway. Aramis was the only one who's pistol still had a shot, and he had it aimed straight at Dalvaux' head. The others still hand their swords drawn.

"I don't understand," Dalvaux said through gritted teeth. "Why should you even care if this boy lives or dies. Why are you so interested,"

"Because it's our job,"

"Your job?" He laughed. "Your job is to protect the King!"

Athos shook his head. "We protect France. And her people,"

The criminal shook his head in disbelief. He pulled Claude closer to him crouching down, blocking Aramis' clear shot. His knife bit once more into the skin of her neck.

"Looks like you're out of luck," He chuckled in her ear, his voice soft, his breath tickling her ear, sending a shiver of disgust down her spine. "Either I kill you, or your friends here do. Such a sad end to your otherwise miserable story my boy,"

Claude muttered something, and Dalvaux lent closer over his shoulder, trying to hear.

"Say that again, I didn't catch you,"

"I said," Claude forced her shaking, tired, voice louder. "Don't call be boy,"

Dalvaux gave a scream as Claude's dagger plunged into his thigh, as hard as the girl could manage in her state. He started to stumble backwards, hands going to clutch at his leg, but his eyes were on Aramis and his pistol. Claude found herself being propelled towards the musketeer, Dalvaux' knife cutting into her throat as she flew. Aramis swung his arms down to awkwardly catch her, his clear shot lost. The others struggled past, hurrying down the steps, but Dalvaux had grabbed the reigns of his horse, slapping its rump and causing it to whiny loudly, before launching off down the street, the bleeding man pulling himself onto the saddle with a roar. Sensing a fruitless chase, the others stopped, turning to face Aramis and the girl.

"Her throat!" Aramis cried. "I need to stop the bleeding!"

Athos watched in horror as the blood ran down Claude's collar bone, pulling his scarf from around his neck, and kneeling down quickly, pressing the material to the pale skin of Claude's neck.

"I- I got him," Claude wheezed, her head resting on the crook of Aramis' arm. "I got him, didn't I?"

"You did," Athos soothed, his voice gentle. "You did well Claude. You did brilliantly,"

And despite the pain, the thirst, the unending terror, Claude felt that rare, burning warmth blossom in her chest once more. With a faint smile, her eyes flickered shut.


	12. Recovery

A warm, bright sunlight was lying across her face, rousing her from her doze. It was pleasant, and she lay for a few minutes, enjoying the heat, listening to the bird song near by. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so relaxed. Letting out a contented sigh, Claude opened her eyes.

Her surroundings were fuzzy, as if she were waking up from a long sleep. She was in a bed, she realised eventually, the sheets felt clean, if not slightly rough to the touch. But she was warm and comfortable. Turning her head felt like it took an age, and when she did, she found herself looking at the distorted shape of a blonde figure, sitting beside the bed. Sunlight was streaming through the window behind the figure, setting their hair aglow in a golden halo of light. Claude blinked, trying to clear her eyes.

"M-Mother?" She asked, confusion in her voice. She must be dead. Dalvaux had finally killed her.

"Claudette!" Came a shocked voice. The figure leaned in closer to her, their face becoming clearer. "Oh thank goodness you're awake!" Clarice gave a relieved sigh.

Claude tried to sit up, groaning slightly as the pain returned. Her left arm was throbbing, but was no where near as bad as it had been earlier. Her head hurt too, come to think of it, so did her ribs, and her neck, and her legs and- well everything. Clarice leaned forward, gently helping her sister to settle. Claude lifted her hand up to her head, narrowing her eyes, and found that her head had been bandaged. She dropped her hand, noticing the lack of bandages on her burnt arm. The blisters were gone, replaced with red, sore looking skin. The burnt area was small however, well on the way to being fully healed. Her other arm was pulled up in a sling.

"What- what happened?" She asked Clarice. Her sister looked upset, and had been watching her carefully.

"Your throat was cut!" She stated, wide eyed, voice wobbling. "It wasn't as bad as they thought though, not too deep. They think you've broken a few ribs, your shoulder was dislocated, and your head was split open. You've been out cold for three days Claudette!"

"Three days?!"

"You had a fever, you were delirious. We only just managed to get some water in you when you came to for a few moments. You don't remember?"

Claude shook her head slowly. Three days out cold? She couldn't remember any of it. In fact, the last thing she remembered was stabbing Dalvaux in the leg. But even that was fuzzy, strewn with memories of the cold, damp cellar. She gave a shudder, a wave of cold sweeping over her, and screwed her eyes tight shut. A warm hand took hers.

"Claudette, I have to go," Her sister told her. "I've been away from work for too long. But I'm so glad you're okay. Please promise me you'll come and visit, anytime? I don't want to loose you again!" Her voice was pleading, and Claude could see the sincerity in her eyes. She gave a nod, and watched Clarice's pretty face light up with a smile. "I'll see you soon!"

She rose from the chair, hurrying to the door, and giving Claude a final smile before leaving. The silence that filled the room rung in Claude's ears, and her own smile slipped from her face. She pulled the covers back, aiming to wriggle her stiff legs, and looked down in shock.

"What the-"

She was dressed in some sort of white night dress, probably the most feminine piece of clothing she'd worn since she was five. It had small frills on the short sleeves and hem, and was lightly embroidered in white thread. She wrinkled her face in disgust, and then swung her legs over the side of the bed, looking around the room. She'd never been here before, it was neither D'Artagnan's or Athos', but was small and light. Apart from the bed, there was chair, a small desk and a wooden cupboard, minimal but practical. It was very cosy, and homely, and Claude decided she liked it. If only she knew where she was.

She pushed herself up with a groan, her knees protesting, and steadied her side with a shaking hand. Arching her back and stretching, Claude ignored the slight dizziness that came over her, and then hobbled over to the window. Outside, sat a small courtyard, cobbled, with piles of hay lying around. There were a few figures hurrying about, and windows overlooking it from the others side. To the left, sat great, wooden doors, and with a start, Claude realised she was looking out on the Musketeers stables. The sun was shining, and the snow had all but melted, with only a few piles of slush in the corners of the yard. There were birds flitting about, singing and soaring, and the sky was a clear blue. The first days of spring.

"Aramis won't be happy if he catches you out of bed," came a deep voice behind her, and she spun around, grabbing the window sill to steady herself.

Athos stood, leaning in the doorway, a small smile tugging at his lips. Claude was hit with a mixture of emotions, a swelling joy at first, followed by a sudden, crushing humility. The last time she had spent any proper amount of time with the man, she'd snuck out in the dead of night, leading him on a merry chase around Paris. Would he be annoyed? She gulped a deep breath of air, letting go of the sill and tried to hurry back to her bed. Her legs wobbled dangerously, and the dizziness returned.

"Careful!" Athos warned, crossing the room in a few strides to take her arm.

Claude became suddenly self-conscious of her ridiculous night gown, a blush rising in her neck. She allowed the musketeer to guide her back to her bed, and slid in, pulling the covers up as high as she could. Athos sat down on the edge of the chair, taking his hat off and sitting it on his knee.

"What happened to Dalvaux?" Claude asked seriously, getting right to the point. "Is he dead,"

Athos looked slightly unsure of how to reply, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Dalvaux escaped. We believed he was seriously injured, but he appears to have made it out of Paris,"

"Escaped?" Claude's voice sounded strangled, angry. "How? He was right there? How could you let him get away?"

"Claude-"

She closed her eyes, waving him away. "No, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just hoped this would all be over," She paused, feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. They'd brought her here, patched her up, kept her comfortable, and here she was, trying to tell him how to do his job. But why couldn't that monster be dead? Why couldn't one thing have gone her way? She took a deep breath, and opened her eyes again, to find Athos watching her carefully.

"So where am I?" She asked, trying to sound chirpy.

"Your new lodgings" Athos told her, smirking slightly as her eyes opened wide in shock.

"This-this is mine? This room?"

"If you like it," He nodded. "And once you're well, there's a place for you working in the stables. You'll be warm, dry, a roof over your head, and a small wage, to keep you fed and comfortable,"

Claude was speechless, her mouth opening and shutting like a fish, staring at the musketeer in disbelief. A house? A job? It was more than she could have dreamed of. If someone had told her a month ago, that she would be sitting here, with a life, a real life, ahead of her, she would have laughed and called them crazy. And yet here she was.

Claude spluttered, trying to find the correct words. "Athos, I don't know what to say. Thank you! Really, thank you!" She threw herself forward, wrapping her free arm around the musketeers neck, feeling tears pricking at her eyes. The man stiffened slightly underneath her, but relaxed, returning her hug with a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. Claude lent back in her bed, an uncontrollable smile tugging at her lips, the smell of stale wine and musk still in her nostrils.

"There is one more thing..." Athos added, and her smile slipped at his serious tone. "We arrested Dalvaux' men, they'll be going on trial in the next few days. As one of the only witness, we'll need you to speak at their trial,"

Claude frowned for a second, but nodded. "I can do that. Splint and Simon weren't much better than their boss. Where's the trial?"

"At court. The Cardinal will be preceeding"

"The Cardinal?!" Claude found herself spluttering. She hadn't been banking on that! She'd never even seen the man from afar. And court? Well, lets just say she never thought she'd set foot in there. A mixture of panic and excitement raced through her, and her heart began pounding in her chest.

"You'll be find," Athos reassured her firmly. He placed his hat back onto his head, adjusting it as he rose from the chair. "I'll send someone in with some food for you, you should rest in the mean time,"

Claude shuffled further into the sheets, getting comfortable. She was already tired, even having just woken up, but was still slightly disappointed that her visiting hours were over. For some reason, she was thirsting for human company. Perhaps she missed the buzz of talk that was constantly there when the boys were around, or perhaps she knew that the terrors would descend when she was finally alone. Either way, Claude found herself wishing the musketeer would stay a little the others would visit soon. She'd like to see Aramis, to thank him for his work, for she had a feeling that he'd probably saved her life. And Porthos and D'Artagnan of course, both of whom had been supportive and welcoming. They'd never made her feel like a burden, and she appreciated that. Part of her still couldn't believe that they'd helped her this far. So perhaps her feelings towards them really were founded. Perhaps they really were becoming her friends.

Athos closed the door behind him, letting out a deflating breath. She was safe, back off the streets, and set for life. His job was done. But he still felt somewhat attached to the girl. Dalvaux confused questioning echoed in his head. He did care for the girl, he couldn't deny that. The horror that had settled in his chest when he'd discovered Claude's disappearance from his lodgings had been been made of more than guilt. He genuinely wanted what was best for her. But at least for now, he could content himself on the fact that she was no where near that monster.

Claude felt her breath escape suddenly, and gasped for air, her hand reaching to grab at her sore ribs, which were protesting at the pressure being put on them. She stumbled slightly, but caught herself, pouting.

"Easy does it Constance, I'm an injured woman!" She gasped.

"Oh stop being such a baby!" The woman retorted, but she was smiling, pulling once more at the laces of the bodice that she'd managed to persuade Claude to put on. "There, that sides all done, just the other one to do," She tied the lace in a neat bow, and then began work on the identical line on Claude's left.

The girl huffed out a great breath, looking down at the skirts that were hanging below her. A dark, plain brown, nothing fancy, with a light blue bodice over a plain, white shirt. Constance had suggested red and pink, but Claude had put her foot down. The blue was bad enough. She gasped again at another tug of the laces, but didn't say anything. It was too late to change her mind now. Anyway, no one would listen.

She didn't know whose idea it had been to put her in a dress, but she could see the logic behind it. A poor damsel was going to gain much more sympathy than a scruffy looking street boy. She'd been reluctant to come clean about her gender, but was soon informed that Captain Treville was already fully aware of the situation. So in other words, she didn't have much choice. Better to reveal the whole truth, than continue to tell an obvious lie. But this dress...

Claude gave another groan, shutting her eyes and hanging her head, missing Constance' impatient look. She heard the tut though, and smiled slightly. Constance had a rare spirit that she had never seen in a proper 'lady' before. One that she could identify with easily. Somehow, she had the feeling that the two of them would be ganging up on the musketeers more often than naught.

"There," Constance gave a final tug, before tying the lace in a bow. "All done. There's a mirror over there, go take a look,"

Claude scowled at the other woman, and then gave in to Constance' flapping hands, and shuffled over to the mirror, awkwardly lifting up the hem of her skirts, like she'd seen other girls doing in the muddy streets. How were people meant to walk in these things?! With an aggravated sigh, she dropped the skirts, slouching in front of the mirror, and glared at herself. She looked ridiculous.

"Stand up straight!" Constance scolded her, and she forced her shoulders back.

Well...it was different. Her hair was down for once, with only the stray pieces that usually hung like curtains tied neatly back. There was still a large red scar showing at the hair line where her head had hit the roof, and her eyes still had a slightly sunken look to them. But fairly surprisingly, at least to herself anyway, she actually looked like a woman for once. Well, an unattractive one at least, she added in her head. The dress help that of course, and good god...

"I have breasts!" She squeaked, cheeks glowing a bright, ruddy red colour.

She heard Constance laugh behind her, before appearing in the reflection. "Well what did you expect? Were you starting to believe you were a boy too?"

Claude smiled, rather shyly. "No it's just...well there was never much there,"

"The wonders of a well fitting bodice," Constance chuckled, before disappearing from the mirror's reflection once more.

There was a knock at the door, and Constance called for them to enter. D'Artagnan appeared, giving Claude a short bow. "Is Mademoiselle ready to depart,"

"Oh stop it," Claude rolled her eyes, ignoring his smirk, slumping into the chair beside her where she began to pull on her boots.

"What are you doing!" Constance asked, taking the boots off her. "You can't wear those!"

"They're comfy!"

"They're filthy!" The woman handed her a pair of leather laced boots, with a small heel.

Claude looked at her raising an eyebrow. "Are you serious? These are ridiculous, I'll break an ankle!"

Constance's only reply was a firm scowl, and with a sigh, muttering under her breath, Claude pulled them on. She was going to look like a complete idiot, it was going to be completely obvious that she had no idea what she was doing, and that she'd never worn anything like this in her life. Maybe this was all just an elaborate plan to embarrass her? No, more likely they had just completely overestimated her.

She stood with a sigh, and then hobbled from the room, avoiding D'Artagnan's eye. To her horror, the rest of the musketeers were standing in the main room, waiting. She couldn't look at them, couldn't look anywhere near them. Aramis inclined his head when she entered.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, could you perhaps tell us where our friend Claude has gone?" He was smiling, and Porthos gave a chuckle at his joke, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Who'd have thought there was a lady in there after all?"

"I'm no lady Porthos," Claude pouted, pleading with her eyes for them to stop.

"Not a lady, not a boy, please make up your mind, it's getting confusing," D'Artagnan said from behind her, and his friends gave a chuckle.

Athos remained silent in the corner. He was watching, she realised, but hadn't acknowledged her entrance, or joined in with the other's teasing. His face was unreadable as usual, and she felt all the more uncomfortable looking at him, so she decided to stare at the ground instead. But his voice caught her attention before she could sink into a proper pit of embarrassment.

"It suits you,"

It suits you? It suits you? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Where was his usual eloquence?

She looked up at the musketeer, but he cleared his throat and looked away. Claude glanced at Constance who was watching the musketeer with interest, a small smile playing on her face. She crossed the room, holding out a ribbon to Claude's neck.

"Here, I thought you might like this to cover the scar-"

"Oh, no no," Claude interrupted her, stopping her hand before it reached her neck, which was still a painful red colour, Aramis' careful stitches running the length of the wound. "Thank you, but I'm not ashamed of it. I don't mind people seeing. Besides, it doesn't make much difference,"

She glanced back at Athos again, but this time, the emotion was clear on his face, she just didn't know what it was. His eyes were wide however, his brow lowered. What was that? Shock? Pain? What was wrong with him? Why was he acting so strange. Claude brushed it off. There were more troubling things at hand, like this stupid trial for instance.

"May I escort you Mademoiselle?" Aramis extended an arm, smiling that stupid, teasing grin.

Claude gritted her teeth, taking his arm with her free one, and muttering dangerously under her breath. "I am going to kick you any minute, you know that right?"

She received an amused, infuriating chuckle in reply.

"I call the first witness. Mademoiselle Claudette Cordonnier."

Claudette looked nervously at Aramis to her left who gave her an encouraging nod, and then took a step forward. The Cardinal was a formidable looking man, with severe eyebrows and a stare that felt like it was cutting through her like Dalvaux' knife. His cloak was magnificent, quite majestic in fact, but Claude found herself imagining him as some sort of big, dark bird, with a shark beak and leathery wings. She gave a shiver, looking over her shoulder at the Musketeers. Porthos flashed her a small, quick smile, and she gulped, turning back.

"Mademoiselle, you know these men?"

Claude looked across the room where Splint and Simon stood, glaring at her. She'd been avoiding sending her gaze in their direction until now, because when she did, her gut began to churn uncomfortably in a mixture of fear and rage. And there it was again, bubbling and burning away. She gave a nod, turning back to the Cardinal.

"I do, Your Eminence," She swallowed heard, trying to steady her voice.

"And what grievances do you hold against them?"

She looked back at them again, allowing her rage to build once more. It gave her a certain confidence, at least enough to get the job done. Splint narrowed his eyes at her, trying to appear threatening. But it didn't work, she didn't let it. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice was loud and clear, without tremor.

"They served the murderer Dalvaux. They imprisoned me, took part in the massacre of a house of defenseless young boys, and were involved in the killing of a Spanish envoy,"

A quiet murmuring filled the room as the watching crowd discussed her reply between them. She didn't turn around, or look at them, her attention was fully focused on the Cardinal, who was regarding her carefully.

"We didn't take no woman!" Splint cried from behind her, but grunted as his guard shoved him roughly to shut him up. The Cardinal turned back to her.

"Is it true that you have been disguising yourself as a boy?"

"It is, Your Eminence,"

The muttering grew louder. She felt herself flushing, her breath catching in her chest. If this damn bodice wasn't so tight...her nerves were coming back once more, and she looked down at her feet, trying to steady her breathing.

"And why was this deception necessary?" The Cardinal's voice had a steel edge to it, and she felt herself panicking. Would this stop them taking her word? Because she dressed as a boy? Surely not?

"I-I," She began stuttering, her hand shaking. She balled it into a fist, bringing it to her stomach. "It was safer. Easier for me to survive. I wasn't hassled as often, and the boys accepted me,"

"Because you were a street urchin, am I correct?"

"I don't see what that has to-"

"Yes, or no will suffice Mademoiselle?" Richelieu snapped, and Claude felt herself loosing what remained of her confidence.

"Yes,"

The murmuring was nearly explosive this time. Claude wanted to curl in a ball, just shrink away from the eyes and the voices. It was obvious now, the dress was a stupid idea, everybody saw through it. She was still just a dirty little street rat, not fit to lick these people's boots. She couldn't even bring herself to look at the musketeers. Maybe they were finally realising how worthless she was too, and she couldn't bare to see that realisation in their eyes.

"And this is all the evidence you bring? Your word?" She glanced up to find the man shaking his head, a small smirk on his lips. "Very well Mademoiselle. That will be all,"

Claude's eyes sprang wide open at his dismissal. That was it? Here mouth opened and shut, and then she finally managed to splutter out a retort.

"Your Eminence, these men killed my friends, they-"

"You have no proof!" He snapped back.

"Just because I'm-"

"You speak out of turn Mademoiselle." The Cardinal towered over her, his voice low and dangerous, before standing, and walking away. "You're all dismissed. We reconvene in ten minutes,"

The bustling murmur of the crowd echoed in the room as they began to move off, but Claude was rooted to the spot, mouth open, staring at the Cardinal's back. This couldn't be happening. She knew the nobility had little care for the poor, but this, this was blatant discrimination. She was nothing more than dirt to them, and the Cardinal had made that perfectly clear. And so that was that. End of story. With only the musketeers to provide a witness account now, how much chance did they have? Well, without evidence, none, at least not for the accounts of murder. She realised she was shaking, and badly. A gently hand took her arm.

"Claude," Athos muttered. "Come,"

"Athos-"

He ignored her protests, half guiding, half pulling her from the room, following the others. They kept walking, down a flight of stairs that made Claude grip Athos' arm tightly as she hobbled in her healed boots, and through another corridor, until they reached a double set of doors leading out into the gardens. It was there that they finally stopped. Athos let go of her arm, but Claude continued moving, pacing gracelessly back and forward.

"This isn't fair!" She hissed. "Those boys died, and what happens? Nothing. Nothing at all. That fowl, ugly old-"

"Careful!" Aramis warned. "You can't talk like that here!"

"I'll talk how I like!" She snapped back, glancing up at him quickly before resuming her trot. Her ankle wobbled beneath her, and she almost twisted it, sucking in a deep breath. Claude finally stopped, spinning around to face the musketeers. "We can't let them get away with this! There must be something we can do!"

Athos watched her carefully, her cheeks aglow a bright, angry red that descended down her neck onto her heaving chest. There was anger in her eyes, bright and fiery, and her mouth was set firmly. The red wound on her neck stood out, harsh, and jagged. His eyes lingered over it, his memories of that night in the burning châteaux resurfacing. He pushed them away, and took his money purse from his belt.

"There's always this," He told them, retrieving an item from the purse and holding it out for them to see.

The sapphire ring sat in the palm of his hand.


	13. Moving On

Claude paced across the gravel path, wobbling in her boots, skirts held up with one hand. She was tired now, the trial had taken a lot out of her, but the day was not over. She needed to see justice being done. But she couldn't from out here in the grounds.

The musketeers had headed back into the trial, D'Artagnan opting to stay outside with the girl. And she hadn't stop moving since they'd left. The two of them had walked out of the shade, following the path for a few steps and coming to a halt, the doors that their friends would be leaving by still in sight. Although the sun was shining brightly, there was still a cruel bite in the air, and Claude found herself cursing the dress all the more, wrapping her shall closer around her shoulders. And then the pacing resumed.

Her ankles nearly gave way on the uneven ground more than once, and on the third occasion, D'Artagnan finally spoke up.

"Please sit down Claude, before you break anything else!"

The girl looked to where the young man was sitting, a low stone wall, and gave a sigh, hobbling over to join him. Her skirts caught awkwardly on the edge of the wall as she sat, and she felt like she was going to tip over. Her heels dug into the gravel however, and she managed to settle.

"I can't wait to get this thing off," She mumbled, loose hand fiddling with the material of her skirts.

D'Artagnan gave a chuckle. "Madame Bonacieux made a good choice however,"

"Too good a choice," Claude moaned. "I don't take well to being a lady, she's much better at it than me,"

"She's a good woman,"

Claude looked at the young man out of the corner of her eye, a small smile playing on her lips. "And a beautiful one at that,"

"Indeed," He nodded in agreement, looking out across the grounds to the majestic building in front of them. Claude's smile stretched to a grin, which D'Artagnan finally noticed. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," She replied.

The young man opened his mouth to press further, but they were interrupted by movement as the doors swung open. Claude stood quickly, wobbling in her heeled boots, and D'Artagnan rose to steady her, offering an arm to help her down the path, where they met the others.

"Well?" Claude asked impatiently. "What's the verdict,"

"The presence of the ring, and our witnessing of them at Dalvaux' lodgings proved to be the deciding factor," Athos told them, pausing for what felt like an age. "They have been found guilty of murder and conspiracy to treason. They will be hung shortly,"

Claude let out a breath that she hadn't realised she'd been holding. It was strange, how the news of another persons death could bring such satisfaction. She wasn't sure what that made her. A bad person? Well if that was the case, she didn't care. These men had caused to much hurt to feel sorry for them.

"And Dalvaux?" She asked after a moment.

"If he is found, he will be put to trial. Until then, a warrant for his arrest will be issued throughout the country. If he turns up anywhere, we should hear about it,"

"You can rest easy," Porthos added. "For now, it's over,"

Weeks passed, and the short, bright first days of spring began to grow longer and warmer. Claude was kept busy, with little time to worry about Dalvaux' where-abouts. There was a lot of work to do on the stables, mucking out the horses, grooming, feeding, and of course, getting them ready whenever a musketeer appeared. Most of the men were quite agreeable, and would give her a polite thank you, or nod, some even stopping and chatting while she readied their horse. Of course, there were a few who either didn't acknowledge her presence, or if they did, made it clear what they thought of her.

She enjoyed working with the horses, each of them had unique characters, some were gentle, and easy to care for, others, much like some of their riders, were short tempered, and she'd gotten a few nasty nips from them. But after a while, she learnt not to be afraid of them, a firm, confident approach was far superior to quaking in her boots. Perhaps there was a life lesson to learn there somewhere.

Claude's confidence with the animals was not the only change in the girl. After a good few weeks of decent meals, and a roof over her head, she'd grown to a healthy weight. Her ribs were no longer painfully obvious, and her collar bone didn't jut out harshly. She felt stronger, happier, she tired less quickly, and she found her appetite growing too. Claude was finally growing into a healthy young woman. And she knew exactly who she could thank for that.

But good health brought other problems with it, she found, one bright spring morning. She woke with the dawn, feeling groggy, her eyes still sticky with sleep. There was a dull ache in her stomach, throbbing away like a sore tooth. Perhaps she'd eaten something odd the night before. Claude lay for a few minutes longer, listening to the quiet buzz outside her window of the other workers rising. She had to get up. A stomach ache wouldn't hold her back. With a groan, she forced herself to peel the covers back, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Ahh shit," She swore, looking down. A small red stain had seeped into her white night gown (the one she'd complained about when she first found, but had secretly become fond of) and her thighs felt sticky.

A horror settled over Claude. She wasn't prepared for this. Her mother had died when she was a small child, her sister had disappeared. She'd been hanging around with boys all her life, and although she knew what this was, she had no idea how to deal with it. She'd pretty much resigned herself to the fact that she would never get this curse. Apparently, Claude had been wrong.

The girl took a deep breath, and then dived from the bed, grabbing her breeches up from the floor, and then hurrying over to the cupboard squeezed into the corner. She opened it, looking at the tiny selection inside, and spotted the bundle of bandages that had tied her dislocated arm, which had been chucked in there when she got tired of them. She grabbed them, bundling them up before stuffing them into the crotch of her breeches, and pulling them on. Not exactly an elegant fix, but it might buy her some time. Claude pulled on her jerkin, belting it quickly, and then dived out the door.

The streets were already getting busy, with people heading to work, or to the market. The morning was crisp, chilly, but the sky was clear and blue. Not that she had time to admire it. Claude hurried through the other city dwellers, head down, trying not to draw attention to herself, watching her feet. She spotted a pair of boots before her, and stumbled to a halt, muttering an apology as she attempted to side step the wearing.

"Claude?" She looked up, the colour draining from her face. Oh god, why? Why did she have to run into him, again?

"Oh, morning Athos. Didn't see you there," She gave a quick smile, and then tried to keep walking. The musketeer, put a hand out, stopping her.

"Are you feeling quite well?" He asked, brow furrowing. She finally looked up at his face, and saw that his hair was wet, bags under his eyes. Another hard night of drinking? "

She nodded quickly. "Quite well. I'm just off to see Constance,"

He narrowed his eyes, looking at her closely. "You're awfully pale,"

"I'm fine, honest," Claude began backing away, forcing a smile. "I'll see you later," She dodged away through the crowd, and hurried down the street, stealing a quick glance over her shoulder. The musketeer was till standing in the same place, watching her go.

She reached the Bonaceux house without any more incident, a wrapped on the door insistantly. The sound of movement could be heard beyond, and it finally swung open to reveal Constance. She looked slightly confused at Claude's presence, but smiled none the less.

"Claude? What brings you here so early?"

"I-I-" She looked past Constance, and spotted her husband standing in the front room, frowning at the intrusion. She lowered her voice. "Can I speak with you alone? It's an emergency,"

Constance's smile began to slip, concern crossing her face. She opened the door wide, letting the girl in. Claude smiled politely at Constance's husband, but received nothing in return. Her smile turned to a look of disdain, before she followed Constance into her sewing room at the back, and closed the door behind them.

"Whatever's the matter?" Constance asked, crossing her arms.

Claude began to blush furiously, giving a nervous chuckle, before clearing her throat. "It appears...I mean to say- I um," She took a deep breath, and then just blurted it out. "My monthlies have come and I don't know what to do!"

Constance was quiet for a moment, and then let out a relieved breath, her own face going slightly red as she chuckled. "Oh my goodness, you had me worried there for a second!" Claude began to apologise, but the young woman waved her off. "No no, not to worry, we'll get you sorted,"

But Claude's blush did not disappear until she left the room.

She'd met D'Artagnan in the front room, heading out to the garrison himself, and feeling a little more comfortable, she thanked Constance, and made her way back to work with the young man. He looked tired, but was in lively spirits, and they chatted casually between themselves as they made their way through the crowds. When they arrived at the garrison, they found Athos already sitting at the table with Porthos and Aramis, fresh loaves of bread sitting on the table in front of them.

"Joining us for some breakfast?" D'Artagnan asked.

Claude smiled, giving a nod, and then followed him over to the table. She slid onto the bench beside Aramis, who gave a welcoming clap on the back, and then grabbed a chunk of bread. She was famished! Tucking into the bread with a good deal of relish, she heard a chuckle opposite her.

"Someone's got an appetite," Porthos observed, and she flashed him a cheeky grin, before taking another bite.

"Some of us have a long day of hard work ahead of us,"

He gave a snort of laughter. Claude looked across the table at Athos, who wasn't eating. He had been watching her carefully from under his hat, but looked away nonchalantly when she looked up. Claude chewed her bread slowly, feeling the blush returning to her cheeks but looked away, distracted as one of the kitchen girls came over to the table.

"Can I get you boys anything else?" She asked, her voice light and friendly. Her smile was charming, flashy, with little pink cheeks which glowed, and large brown eyes.

"A cure for headaches would be nice," Aramis muttered, reaching his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Late night?" Claude asked.

"A good night," The musketeer gave a tired smile. "But yes, late none the less,"

"What poor girl were you romancing this time?" Athos asked dryly

Aramis gave a chuckle. "Ahh, a beauty she was,"

Claude gave a snort, ready to impart her own witty comment, but was interrupted by the serving girl. "Well, I'm afraid I can't cure headaches, but I can feed any of your appetite," Her tone was slightly flirtatious, and D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly.

"We're quite alright, thank you," Athos told her, and she gave him another dazzling smile, before turning and going back into the kitchens, her round hips swinging as she went.

Claude scowled after her, slightly alarmed at the ball of...what was that jealousy? Yes. The ball of jealously burning in her gut. The black clouds were descending over her, sudden and violent. Her appetite was gone, and she dropped the bread onto the table, playing with the stray crumbs. Her burnt arm caught her attention, the new skin shining, and scarred. It was ugly to look at, she thought, running a hand over her arm. Another blemish on an already imperfect surface. So she was a woman now, in theory, she could bare a child, and raise a family if she so wished. But it would be a girl like that who found a husband, not her. A bitter taste was left in her mouth. She rose from the table suddenly, ignoring Aramis who jumped beside her, and then groaned as he held his head.

"I thought you were starving?" Porthos frowned, but Claude shook her head.

"Better get to work,"

She strode from the courtyard without a backward glance, ignoring the questioning looks that followed her.

Claude was still in a bad mood when the four of them walked into the stables later that afternoon. She'd spent her time throwing herself into her work, mucking out the stalls, giving the horses hay, and lugging water in from the well outside. She was stopped a few times by the same, throbbing deep in her stomach, spreading through to her back, but grit her teeth and worked through it, the pain fueling her anger.

So when the men walked in, they didn't receive their usual welcoming, of smiles and cheery greetings. Instead, Claude looked up from her work, brushing down one of the horses, and hardly registered their presence. The musketeers looked between themselves, frowning. Since starting work at the stables, Claude had visibly brightened, and her shyness towards them was dimming quickly. This was odd behavior indeed. After a few minutes watching her brushing down a chestnut mare's back, Athos cleared his throat. She stopped what she was doing, and turned around, giving the horse a clap on the neck.

"Can I help you Athos?" She asked, her voice polite, but with a strange edge to it.

"We've received word from a town in the north. Seems a few of the young boys have been caught stealing food, and claim they were put up to it,"

Claude frowned, looking at the ground, thinking. "Put up to it by who?"

"They didn't give a name," Athos continuted. "But his description matches Dalvaux'"

Claude felt her heart skip a beat. Dalvaux, still alive, and still using boys to do his dirty work. She should have stabbed a little harder. Her mouth ran dry, and her breathing grew shallow. What now? And what if it wasn't him?

"We ride immediately,"

The musketeers began to move off towards their horses, and Claude came back to earth with a bump, hurrying after them.

"I'm coming too,"

"I don't think that's wise," Athos told her, his back to her as he readied his horse.

"Well I don't care what you think, I'm coming too!" She stormed back.

Aramis appeared beside Athos, looking uncomfortable. "Claude, you've only just recovered from your last run in with Dalvaux-"

"Perhaps he's only just recovered from his run in with me," She countered. "And besides, I was by myself. The brave musketeers will be there this time,"

Aramis rolled his eyes at her smirk, returning to his own horse.

Athos still did not look happy however, turning away as he buckled the saddle of his horse. His jaw was set in determination, deep frown covering his face. Claude folded her arms, waiting on him saying something else, but it never came. He continued his work, quietly, and quickly. The girl stepped forward, grabbing his arm, and therefore his attention.

"Look, I'll be careful. I'll listen, and I'll do whatever any of you tell me. But this is really important to me, you just have to trust me,"

"Trust you?" He asked, still not turning around from his work. "As I trusted you last time, when you disappeared in the dead of night?"

His retort cut through her like a knife, a cold, creeping shame settling over her. She felt like she'd been punched, and the colour visibly drained from her face. To her horror, Claude felt tears pickling at her eyes, unexpected but uncontrollable. She forced them back, biting her tongue and focusing on the pain, unable to speak. And any, what was she going to say to that? Athos noticed her silence, and finally stopped what he was doing, turning around to look at her. His scowl lessened when he saw her face, and he gave a sigh, feeling suddenly guilty. Claude took a deep breath, and then stalked off, grabbing a saddle and approached the chestnut mare once more. The musketeer went to go after her, but hesitated, looking back at his friends. Aramis raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps I was a little harsh," Athos muttered.

Aramis inclined his head in reply. "Perhaps, yes,"

"Just leave her be for now," Porthos suggested. "She'll come round once we're on the road,"

"So you're perfectly happy with her coming along? Getting herself into trouble again?" Athos asked the scarred man.

"I never said that," Was Porthos reply, before giving a chuckle. "I just think she'll follow us, whether we like it or not,"

Athos gave a sigh, nodding in a reluctant agreement, before returning to his horse.


	14. Going Places

The journey had started out fairly comfortable, the sun shining on their backs, a light breeze playing in their hair, but after about an hour, the fast approaching clouds opened, and they were hit by a downpour of spring rain. A shower, Aramis had assured them. But half an hour in, soaked to the bone, the rain was doing nothing for Claude's spirits.

The dull ache in her stomach was back, if not worse this time, to the point where she felt slightly sick. She almost wished she'd stayed back at the garrison, not that she'd be telling a certain musketeer that. Athos' remark was still biting into her mind, another reason for her dark mood perhaps. She hadn't spoken to him the entire journey, keeping near the back of the group with Aramis, who's headache had lessened, and was considerably more cheerful.

"Well at least you're more comfortable around horses now," He was pointing out, as a great fat droplet of rain fell from the tip of Claude's nose.

"Yes, well, I would hope so, considering my job," Claude retorted, and she heard the musketeer give a chuckle. She pulled the hood of her travel cloak further down, but it didn't help much.

Another wave of pain hit her stomach, and she fought the grimace that her face wanted to morph into. No point gaining any attention, it wasn't like she could tell them what was wrong. Her eyes focused ahead, coming to rest on the back of the musketeer leading the group. She must have been scowling, because apparently Aramis noticed.

"Don't take Athos' temper personally," The man beside her told her quietly. "He's just worried about you,"

"Why would he be worrying about me?" She mumbled back grumpily.

"Contrary to his gruff exterior, he does care," Aramis told her. "And when you disappeared, he didn't take it so well. I'd hate to think how he would have reacted if we'd been too late,"

Claude's scowl slipped slightly, as she fought to stay angry. Angry was better than the alternative, which was just plain upset. And crying was the last thing she needed to do right now. But the problem was, she knew Athos was right to be angry. Wouldn't she be? Her scowl slipped altogether, and she sighed, looking down at the reigns of her horse.

"He's right," She muttered to Aramis. "It was wrong to run off. And I'm sorry for causing trouble, I am. But he wasn't going to let me help, and I needed to-"

"Then tell him that," He urged quietly.

Claude looked back up, watching the musketeer in front. "I will," She turned to Aramis, a small smirk on her face. "But he can stew for a little while first,"

He gave a chuckle, adjusting his soaked hat on top of his head. The sound of hooves behind them grew louder, and Porthos appeared on Aramis' other side.

"What are you ladies gossiping about?"

"Oh nothing," Aramis gave Claude a knowing wink. "We're just discussing the smell of your boots," He screwed up his face, waving his hand in front of his nose. "We can smell them from here,"

Porthos rolled his eyes, and spurred his horse forward, ignoring the amused chuckling that followed him.

By late afternoon, the rain had finally stopped, leaving a cold, damp that sunk through to the bones. The clouds were thinning slightly, but it was growing dark, night fast approaching. The air was chillier, and Claude found herself wrapping her cloak closer around herself. So when Athos finally announced that they would stopping for the night, she was extremely relieved.

The nearest inn wasn't too far away, but by the time they reached it, the sun had almost set. It was a cosy little place, at the side of the road, not far from a small village. Claude had lowered herself from her horse, stiff and aching, and followed the musketeers into the inn. It was warm, warm and bright, a roaring fire bringing a much needed heat to the room. They paid for their rooms; one each, the inn wasn't busy. The thought of sinking into a nice, cosy bed was extremely tempting, but the smell of food was even more so.

The barmaid was a pretty woman, not much older than Claude, with rosy cheeks, and full lips. She smiled as the tired travelers approached, but Claude wasn't paying too much attention. Her stomach was gurgling loudly, and a steaming bowl of soup she recieved would be welcome indeed, complete with a massive chunk of crusty bread. She was about to leave the bar, before having second thoughts, and gave a few more coins to the barmaid, returning to the table with a bottle of wine, which she placed down in front of Athos. A peace offering. He rose an eyebrow in question, and then gave a slow nod of thanks. Claude gave a curt nod back, and then turned her attention to the soup.

It was divine. She devoured her helping quickly, mopping up what was left with the bread, and then sat back in her chair, leaning on the wall behind with a contented sigh. The others were quietly talking among themselves, about what, she didn't notice. Her eyes shut for a few seconds, or at least it felt like that, before she received a gently prod.

"Go to bed," Porthos chuckled. "You're dead on your feet,"

Claude opened her mouth to argue, and then shut it with a snap, giving a resigned, tired laugh. "Alright. I'll see you all in the morning,"

Porthos wasn't far off. As soon as Claude's head hit the pillow, she was dead to the world.

Claude awoke to the sound of giggling. She was confused at first, disorientated as her eyes focused in the gloom. Who was laughing? It wasn't time to get up already was it? She felt sluggish, her legs still tired from the horse ride, although the ache in her stomach had eased somewhat. The giggling continued, punctuated by a male voice. Claude blinked, and then sat up, surveying her surroundings.

Of course. She was at the inn. She gave a short yawn, before sighing and lying back down again, rolling over to press her face into the warm pillow. But she couldn't press out the noise. The giggling stopped for a second, and then was replaced by another noise, one that made her cheeks flair up, red and hot. There was no way she could get back to sleep now. Claude grabbed the pillow, covering her head with it and screwing her eyes tight shut. Who was that? She couldn't tell which direction it was coming from, and anyway, she'd retired before the others, so she had no way of knowing who occupied which room.

There would be one of them on either side of her however. And who was the woman? One of the other patrons? The bar maid? The noises of pleasure pierced through the fabric of the pillow, making Claude huff out a weary sigh. It was probably Aramis again, or maybe Porthos, possibly even young D'Artagnan. The former certainly seemed to have a way with the ladies. But what if- no, she shoved that idea from her head. But it reared up again, taunting her. It might be Athos. And so what if it was? Why should that matter to her?

The ball of jealousy that had developed that morning rose again, and she wrestled with it, unsuccessfully. Why should she care if Athos was entertaining women? It wasn't like she was interested in him, or vice versa. Why would he be? No, it was probably just the attention she'd been getting lately. She didn't want to share it. That was it, right?

Claude swallowed dryly, letting out a small groan as the noises next door rose to a crescendo. Sighing, she swung the covers back, grabbing her boots and slipping them on, before rising from the bed, taking her jerkin with her. There was no point staying listening to it, she may as well get some fresh air. The noises were still echoing down the corridor when she opened the door to her room, so she slipped out quietly enough, closing her door quickly and softly behind her, before turning to set off down the stairs.

"Claude?" Came a voice behind her, and she turned to find Athos standing at the door to the room to her right. By the looks of it, he was just going in, there were tired bags under his eyes, but he didn't seem as drunk as previous nights. "Why are you up so late?"

"Couldn't sleep," She muttered, the blush returning to her cheeks. As if to prove her point, another loud cacophony came from the room to her left, spurring on her blush all the more.

"Ahh," Athos gave a knowing smile. "Yes, I believe Aramis is getting himself acquainted with the barmaid,"

A sense of relief seemed to flood Claude suddenly, standing there in the hallway. She felt her spirits rise slightly, but still felt slightly confused. Why had she been jealous in the first place? It seemed silly now, an overreaction. She cleared her throat.

"A-Anyway, I'm just going to get some fresh air. I'm not going to run off or anything, I promise," She assured him.

"I believe you," He inclined his head politely, and then turned to enter his room. Giving a relieved sigh, Claude turned away, heading down the stairs, but was stopped as Athos called out. "May I join you?"

Join her? Claude felt a nervous flutter in her stomach, but it calmed, and she gave a nod, smiling slightly. The musketeer followed her down the stairs in silence. The main room was empty now, as they passed through it, with the locals returned home, and the patrons in their own rooms. The fire still crackled, low and dull, but the room was still warm. They continued on, out into the crisp night air. The days clouds had moved off, revealing a star filled sky, deep and hypnotic. The air was full of the scent of spring flowers, and grass, fresh and intoxicating in comparison to the stench of the city. The walked a little down the track, away from the inn, Claude waiting with baited breath for the Musketeer to break the silence. But it wasn't until they came to rest, leaning against the fence at the side of the track, that Athos finally spoke.

"I would like to make an apology," His voice was polite as always. "I believe I spoke harshly earlier. I did not mean to cause you any upset,"

The girl was clearly taken aback, unsure how to reply. She hesitated, and it occurred to Athos, that perhaps, she wasn't so used to people making any form of apology. When she finally replied, her voice was slightly shaky, her nerves apparent.

"It- it's alright. You did have a point, I went behind your back-"

He interrupted her. "You had your reasons. And I respect them. I understand that losing those that you love can force you to take matters into your own hands. I would only hope in future that you would trust us to help you further,"

"Of course, of course!" She replied hurriedly. "What I did was foolish, I see that now. But it seemed like the only way once my secret was out. I knew no one would let me help once they found out. And that wouldn't have been fair,"

Athos surveyed her for a second, taking note of the passion with which she spoke. Although she still seemed nervous, her eyes were ablaze with the same emotion that he had seen many times since meeting her. This girl would not give up, not when her friends were involved. Loyal to a fault. The musketeer sighed.

"No, it wouldn't have been,"

Claude's eyes widened at his admission, and then quickly looked away, up at the stars. The twinkling sky had a calming effect on her, and she felt herself being drawn into the sight. There'd been many a clear night that she'd lain outside, looking up at the stars as she fell asleep. The night sky was both mesmerising and humbling. It really reinforced how tiny she was, significant in a massive world, just another person scrabbling around to survive.

"The heavens watch us in our sleep." She muttered suddenly. "That's what my mother used to tell me. I'm not sure whether that's a comforting thought or not. What must the dead think of us? Still living while they're gone, before their time," She gave a sigh, rubbing her neck absent mindedly, her fingers tracing over the fresh scar of her wound. "Do you think man will ever reach the stars?"

Athos gave a chuckle. "Certainly not in our life time, if at all,"

"Really Athos, you must learn to raise your aspirations!" Claude mocked lightheartedly, producing another chuckle from the musketeer. A warm glow developed in her chest, and she found herself smiling, a real, genuine smile.

"My aspirations will remain firmly on the ground in the meantime. You have an interest in astronomy?"

Claude raised an eyebrow in question. "Astro..nomy?"

"The study of the cosmos," Athos explained.

"Oh," The girl blushed in feint embarrassment at her lack of vocabulary. "Yes, I suppose I do. Not that I know anything about it. It's difficult to get much learning in, living on the streets,"

Athos frowned. "Of course, my apologies" He paused for a second, a thought crossing his mind. "Claude, am I correct in assuming you can neither read or write,"

Her blush growing, smile no longer on her face, Claude scowled and nodded a reply.

"Would you like to learn?"

Athos couldn't help but smile as the girls face lit up, her excitement evident. She nodded once more, although with much greater enthusiasm. He couldn't bring her friends back, or reverse the events of the past few weeks, but perhaps there was something he could do to make the girl's life easier, more enjoyable. Once again, he found a voice at the back of his head questioning his interests, but it was quiet, easy to ignore. For now, the smile on Claude's face was argument enough.

Athos turned out to have much greater patience teaching the alphabet that he did sword fighting, and Claude was greatly relieved by this. It was late at night, but although her body was tired, her mind was wide awake, and active, sitting at the small table in Athos' room, watching him sweep the quill over the parchment in front of him, enunciating each letter that he wrote. His script was neat, thought out, although Claude was unsure if that was purely for her benefit.

When he'd finished writing out the whole alphabet, he'd handed her the quill, her hands shaking with excitement, and asked her to copy each letter below, encouraging her to name them as she went. As she placed the quill to paper the first time, and attempted to scrape it across, Claude pressed to hard, a great splodge of ink marking the parchment. She looked up at the musketeer nervously, but he didn't seem angry. Instead, he took her hand gently, and demonstrated the pressure she should be using.

"Here," He told her, dragging her hand slowly across the parchment. "A light touch is all you need,"

Claude ignored the rapid beating of her heart, putting it down to nerves, allowing him to guide her hand. When they were done, a shaky "a" sat on the page, and she grinned to herself, confidence growing, before starting on the next letter.

Her hand writing was messy, barely readable at best, but she was picking it up, muttering the letters under her breath as she went. When she was done, she sat back, looking at her handy work, and handed the quill back to Athos, who began writing once more. A word, six letters long. She had no idea what it said, but he held the quill out to her again, looking expectant. She took it from him slowly, dipping the tip into the ink well, and began to write.

C...L...A...U...D...E

She mumbled the letters once more as she wrote, but the meaning was not yet apparent to her. Once she was finished, she sat the quill down carefully on the table, and looked at the Musketeer. There was a small smile on his face, and a look, was that pride?

"Congratulations," He told her. "You've written your name,"

"My name?!" She sucked in a breath, looking down at the parchment once more, and then let out a shaky laugh. She'd written her name. This is what it looked like. The grin on her face was infectious, and Athos found his smile growing. "Thank you Athos! Thank you!"

"You should get some rest," He told her. "But if you wish to continue, I will teach you, when you have time,"

He rose from the table, rolling up the parchment and handing it to her. She clasped it with a tight grip, as if she didn't want to let go. The excitement was still in her eyes, she looked proud enough to burst.

"That would be...brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Really, I can't thank you enough!" Much to the musketeer's surprise, the young woman stood on the tips of her toes, reaching up and placing a quick, grateful kiss on his scratchy cheek, before turning and almost skipping to he door in delight. "Goodnight!"

The door to his room closed after her, and he could hear hers open and shut. It was a good few minutes before Athos realised he was still standing in the same place. He reached a hand up, touching his cheek where he could still feel a ghost of a touch, mind in a complete turmoil of confused emotions.

"Goodnight Claude," he muttered, and then turned to his own bed.


	15. A Chance Meeting

The tree was hard against her back, the ground cold beneath her, but she was content, sitting below the fresh, new, green growth of leaves that had spread across the branches. Her legs were stiff after another half day of riding, and Claude had been happy when they'd stopped for lunch, finding the comfortable spot beneath the massive tree, where she could sit and admire the country side. She munched thoughtfully at the slice of bread in her hand, the other dragging the stick through the dirt on the ground beside her. A slightly crinkled piece of parchment lay open on her knee: her alphabet lesson. Claude was quickly getting the hang of each letter, muttering them over and over under her breath as she drew.

When she'd woken that morning, the parchment was the first thing she'd seen, sitting on the table beside her bed. Claude had buried her grinning face into the pillow, excitement building as she remembered her lesson last night. She was learning to read and write! She didn't know anyone else her own age who could, mind you, it wasn't like she'd mingled with anyone other than pick pockets and orphans. So maybe that wasn't much to go on.

The parchment had been tucked carefully into her saddlebag, but she'd pulled it out various times on the trip, to look proudly at her scrawl of letters. Okay, so her hand writing was hardly perfect, but it was hers. And that made her insanely proud. The others had noticed her good mood, and the journey that morning had been enjoyable, the group chatting idly as they rode down the road, teasing Aramis for his activities last night (which apparently had kept D'Artagnan awake as well), and telling stories. Even Athos seemed to be in a good mood, joining in with their jokes in his own, wry way.

He had a dry sense of humour, Claude was beginning to realise. When they'd first met, she'd been convinced that the man was emotionless, no scratch that, just grumpy all of the time. But no, he just chose his moments, uttering lines that at first, the girl was unsure of, until she realised that he was joking. Subtle, yes, that was an accurate description. He even occasionally smiled, albeit, not the wide, infectious grin of Porthos, or the charming, cocky smirk of Aramis, but a small, slight turning of the lips, which reached his eyes, making small creases below them. Whenever she noticed it, Claude found herself smiling in return, a slight bubble rolling in her stomach.

She watched him now, from her place under the tree, glancing up from her work in the dirt. The musketeer was feeding an apple to his horse, gently patting the beast's neck. Part of her was aware of the fact that her hunger to learn was not 100% influenced by her want to read and write. There was a small part of her that just wanted to please the older man, the same part that had glowed with warmth when he'd praised her skills with a knife. It unnerved her slightly, and she wasn't sure how to feel in fact.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind her. "Quite the artist we have here,"

Her neck whipped round so quickly it cracked, and she hissed in a startled breath. Her feet scrambled across the ground, pushing her back, away from the man standing under the tree line. Her hand automatically reached into her boot, pulling her knife free. It had been over a month since she'd had to use it. That didn't mean she would hesitate to use it again.

The man cocked his head, giving a small smile, holding up his hands in mock defeat. "Woah there my lady! I mean no harm,"

My lady? Of course. Her hair was down now, as she was slowly becoming accustomed to wearing it, and had grown longer in her weeks away from the streets. Although she still wore a boy's jerkin, she was no longer making an effort to hide her gender. She didn't need to. But she felt slightly uncomfortable knowing that this man had realised straight away.

She scrambled to her feet, knife out in front of her, taking no chances, and began to back away, checking over her shoulder quickly. The other's hadn't noticed their visitor yet. When she turned back, the man had taken a step out of the tree line.

"Athos...?" She called warily, keeping her eyes firmly on the stranger, slightly ashamed to hear a small quake in her voice.

The sound of swords drawing behind her told her that her cry had been heard, followed by hurried footsteps, clearing the space between them quickly. A hand pulled her gently back, Aramis, pushing her behind him before raising his musket.

"State your business," Athos told the man, his voice steady as always.

"Such suspicion!" The stranger chuckled. "No matter, I don't blame you. These roads have been dangerous lately, highway men and bandits preying on the defenseless. I noticed you gentlemen up ahead, and I thought to inquire where you were heading. It's much safer to travel in groups after all,"

"West," Came Porthos' short reply. The man waited a second for the musketeer to elaborate, but he was not in luck.

"West. Indeed. I happen to be travelling west also. May I accompany you for a short distance? Being in the company of musketeers would surely ease my worry,"

Claude poked her head out around Aramis, getting a good look at the stranger. He was tall, thin, fairly well groomed, with high cheekbones and a crafted, pointed beard. His clothes were plain, but not well worn, his travelling cloak being the only stained item on him. He wore no sword that she could see, and appeared to be unarmed. The man caught her looking flashing her a charming smile. She frowned back at him.

The musketeers looked between themselves. Claude watched as Porthos gave a shrug, D'Artagnan nodding. After a few moments, Athos finally spoke.

"You may join us for a short distance. But I warn you Monsieur, should you act at all inappropriately, we will act accordingly,"

The stranger bowed. "My gratitude gentlemen. May our journey be swift and safe,"

The musketeers lowered their swords, sliding them home. They were quiet, their earlier joviality having left. Claude did not take her eyes off the stranger, who was smiling, relaxed. There was something off about him. No, she didn't like this one bit. Aramis turned to find the girl still peaking around his side. He reached forward, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze in reassurance.

"Don't worry Claude," he said quietly. "Go mount up, we'll ride on,"

Claude finally pulled her gaze away from the man, looking up at the Musketeer, and forcing a quick nod, before heading to her horse, painfully aware that the strangers eyes were on her. He still had that smile on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. Claude suppressed a shiver, settling into her saddle. Her fingers gripped her reigns tightly, the knuckles on her hands standing out white. The man took a step forward, still smiling.

"Claude. An interesting name for a lady. Short for Claudette I presume?"

The girl frowned, and gave an incredibly quick, short nod in response.

"My name is Sebastien. A pleasure to meet you,"

His shallow bow was gracious, his eyes not leaving her face as she smirked up at her. Claude swallowed hard, and did not reply, finally looking up from the man and seeking out her friends. Athos was watching them carefully, brow low. He inclined his head in a question, raising an eyebrow from behind Sebastien's back. Claude glanced back at the stranger, before spurring her horse towards the musketeer.

"I don't like him," She muttered under her breath, guiding her horse to stand beside his. "Not one bit. There's something off about him,"

Athos nodded, his gaze looking over her shoulder at the the new arrival. "You are not alone in your concern, I assure you. Stay close until we are rid of him,"

They rode on, the pace slow and steady to allow for Sebastien, who did not have a horse, to keep up. He did not approach Claude again, although his gaze seemed to rest on her often, sending a shivering chill up her spine. Athos stayed close to her, with Porthos riding close behind. But she wasn't the only one feeling uneasy. After ten minutes of riding, two more figures stepped out of the trees in front of them. The group slowed, the men's hands reaching towards their pistols, quiet, and watching. But before they could draw them, Sebastien took a step forward, calling to the figures ahead.

"Ah my friends! I am relieved to find you well!" He started forward, turning to the musketeers as he went. "Please, do not be alarmed, my friends forged ahead to scout for danger, they mean you no harm,"

"Why didn't you mention them before?" Porthos asked gruffly, his anger evident.

Sebastien put a hand over his heart. "My apologies gentlemen, I meant no disrespect. I only wished to seem as unimposing as possible,"

"So you decided not to tell us about the men you had hiding in the trees in wait?" D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

"Alas, the meaning behind my gesture of good will seems to have been lost,"

"Clearly," Claude muttered under her breath, but the man did not hear. Instead, he hurried forward to greet his friends.

"Gentlemen!" He called dramatically as the musketeers approached. "May I introduce my companions, Pascal and-"

"Thomas?!" Claude's voice was strangled, as if she wasn't getting enough air.

The young man approaching looked at her, confusion on his face, his eyes narrowing. Before Athos could react, Claude flung her leg over her horse, her fears seemingly forgotten, and slid quickly to the ground, and ran over, throwing her arms around the older boy's neck. The young man did not respond however, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. She did not notice her friends exchanging a glance, Athos sliding off his own horse, moving forward, ready to act if necessary.

"You know this young woman Thomas?" Came Sebastien's voice, and it was then, that Claude realised that Thomas was not returning her embrace. She took a step back.

"Thomas, it's me, Claude!" She urged, her voice choked with emotion.

The young man's brow furrowed as he looked at her, before his eye's opened wide in shock. There was some other emotion there too, but she couldn't place it.

"Claude?" He finally spoke. "You- you're alive? And a woman?" His face screwed up in confusion.

Claude gave a light, uneasy chuckle in return. "Surprise!" She said weakly. "It- it's a long story. How are you alive? I didn't see you escape?"

Thomas seemed to hesitate, just for a second. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady however, a smidge of humility to it. "I'd gone out to get supplies for us leaving. By the time I returned, everyone was dead. There was nothing I could do," He hung his head for a second, and Claude sighed.

"It's not your fault Thomas. I tried to get as many of them out as I could, but there were men waiting for them outside. If you'd been there you would have died too. They killed all of them Thomas, Gaspard, Fred, poor Mud, I found him in the dirt, and-"

She realised that she was rambling, feeling the horror build up as she replayed the events in her head. The screaming, the fire, Mud's lifeless body. But Thomas didn't seem to be listening, looking past Claude. She stopped talking, watching his face, and was surprised to see a flash of anger in his eyes.

"I see you went back to the musketeers then. You never were very good at following orders,"

"Following orders- Thomas if I hadn't gone to see them, I'd be dead too,"

Perhaps that would have been for the best. The doubt still sat in her head, but she pushed it away. She had a job, a life now. No point dwelling on such negativity.

"If you hadn't tried to cut that one's purse, Fabien wouldn't have ran off by himself and made that deal. You should have stayed away from them completely!" Thomas growled, jerking his head towards Athos behind them.

His statement stung at first, it was hard not to see the truth in it. After all, if Claude had watched Fabien carefully, he might not have run off. But then she wouldn't have met the musketeers, found her sister, wouldn't have come this far. Was it worth it though? The deaths that had brought her here? But Thomas hadn't even been there. He hadn't taken her warnings seriously enough. He had just blamed her, like he was doing again now. A fierce anger began to bubble inside her. No. She wasn't some street kid anymore.

"If you'd moved everyone when I asked, they'd be alive! The Musketeers helped me Thomas!" Claude spat back. "Which is more than I expected from anyone. They saved my life, got me a job. They're good men, honest men. Hell, I'm glad I met them!"

Thomas was still frowning, clearly not happy with Claude talking back, but didn't say anything.

Athos took his moment, clearing his throat to get their attention. "We should keep moving. I want to make as much headway as possible before dark,"

Claude turned back towards him, still frowning. Still angry, no, fuming, she nodded, taking a deep steadying breath, and marched back to the horses.

They'd rode in silence for a short while, at a frustratingly slow pace, the musketeers with their hands never far from their swords. The presence of Claude's friend had done little to ease their agitation, although the girl was more relaxed than before, unless you counted the fact she was still fuming. As the sun began to set, the trees on either side of the rode lengthening the shadows, they finally stopped, guiding the horses into the thin forest.

The temperature was dropping rapidly, the night clear once again, although this time, Claude was far to preoccupied to admire the stars, and anyway, the trees blocked out most of the sky. She was so confused. Happy of course, that her old friend was alive, but angry at his stubbornness, angry that he was laying the blame on her again. Perhaps it was because she was still struggling to forgive herself. Whatever the problem was, she hadn't spoken to Thomas since meeting him on the road, ignoring his stares and following D'Artagnan into the trees to fill their water skins and find wood for the fire. Anything to get away from camp, and away from the spine tingling stares of Sebastien. His grin set her teeth on edge, slimy, and fake. No, she was better off with D'Artagnan.

The young man had attempted light conversation, trying to pull her out of her mood, and it worked to a certain extent, if only strengthening Claude's fierce and sudden fondness for the group. By the time they returned, it was dark, and her mood had settled slightly. She kept busy however, helping Porthos light the fire, a task which she was pleased to find the musketeer impressed by. At least there was something she could do to help. They ate a light supper, before calling it a night, the strange group moving off to the right. Thomas had flashed Claude another look, but she'd ignored him. Better to sleep on it and talk in the morning.

The ground was soft with moss, and she'd slept on far worse in her time on the streets. Her travelling cloak was thick too, and she wrapped it around herself, settling down on the ground for an uneasy sleep. The snoring in the background told her Porthos was already asleep, and she could see Aramis in the light of the fire, attempting to get comfortable. He kept shuffling about and grumbling, and Claude fought back a chuckle.

Athos rose, chucking another branch on the fire, and then sat down to her left, back against the log behind them, cloak bundled around his shoulders. Claude rolled over slightly, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You're not tired? It's been a long day,"

"Someone should keep watch," He told her quietly, pressing his hat further down onto his head. His face was illuminated in the firelight, the bags under his eyes showing how tired he was.

"I could do that. I'm not that tired," She told him, but she gave herself away as a yawn forced itself out.

Athos chuckled in response, his eyes creasing slightly. Claude gave a sleepy smile in return.

"Get some rest Claude,"

With another yawn, the young woman gave in, burying herself further into her cloak, and shut her eyes. Despite her worries, the events of the day caught up with her quickly, and she swiftly fell into a restful sleep.

Athos had watched Claude as she fell asleep beside him, taking note of the serenity that seemed to cover her face as she drifted off. Her years seemed to be startlingly obvious, the fire casting a flickering glow on her young features. The scar on her neck stood out, stark against the pale skin below. His thoughts slipped back to earlier in the day, meeting Thomas for the first time. Taken aback by the fierceness of Claude's loyal outburst, Athos felt a surge of pride, of fondness towards the girl. Here she was, meeting a boy she had thought was dead, a boy she'd grown up with, and yet she was defending the musketeers without a thought, with ferocity. The last month had clearly been hard on the girl, she'd been to hell and back. But there was still that reckless spirit inside her that Athos had spotted the first time they'd met. He found himself smiling, despite the situation.

He reached forward absent mindlessly, brushing a restless strand of hair from her face. The girl gave a sigh in her sleep, but remained undisturbed, and Athos realised that he was still smiling. A voice at the opposite side of the fire startled him out of his thoughts, and back to reality.

"You care for her, don't you?" Ahh, D'Artagnan was still awake it seemed, propped up against the tree behind him.

"Don't we all?" Athos replied evenly, but the younger man gave a small smile.

"That's not what I meant,"

Athos frowned, his gaze not quite meeting D'Artagnan's focusing instead on the fire. "She's had a terrible life. I wish for her to be happy, nothing more,"

"And what about yourself? Don't you deserve to be happy?"

Athos looked up at the young man, narrowing his eyes slightly. He knew exactly where D'Artagnan was going with this, somewhere he didn't want to. The young man knew more than the others did, ever since that night he'd dragged Athos from his burning châteaux. But the answer was a clear "No" as far as Athos was concerned. He wasn't going to voice that however, and D'Artagnan took his silence to his own advantage.

"You can't torture yourself forever Athos. And I have a funny feeling Claude isn't going to let you. What happened with your wife was not your fault,"

"You don't understand," Athos replied back quickly, his voice low and dangerous. "You can't,"

But D'Artagnan only shrugged. "Perhaps not. But I do understand that the girl needs you. And I think you need her too,"

Athos did not reply to that, his eyes once more focused on the fire. Was there any truth in D'Artagnan's statement? The musketeer gave sigh, shutting his eyes tightly and raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. It had been five years since he had condemned his wife to hang. Five years in which he had not so much as once looked for the company of a woman. Of course he missed companionship, but he didn't deserve it. His family was shattered, because of him. His friends had long since abandoned their efforts to encourage him. He would hear nothing of it. Had it really been five years? Yes, five years of loneliness, of drunken nights, painful mornings. Five years of hell.

And then Claude had come along. A girl who so desperately needed help, even if she'd been reluctant to admit it. A girl who tortured herself for the loss of her family, just as he had been doing, who needed guidance, just had he had longed for. And he was eager to give it. Athos thought back to the night she'd disappeared, to the morning they'd found her in the cellar, beaten, broken. He had been sure she would die, and somewhere deep inside him, that had terrified him. And then the memories of last night had risen unbidden to the musketeers mind, her grinning, ecstatic face as he'd taught her the alphabet, the thrill, the pride. The kiss on his cheek.

The musketeer looked down the the sleeping girl once more, watching her chest rise and fall slowly, her breath fogging the air slightly. Perhaps D'Artagnan was right. Claude needed someone who understood her, and that person was him. And maybe, just maybe, he needed her too.

The house was burning once more, but there was no heat, only sound. In fact, the fire gave off a chill cold, that seemed to freeze her to the bone. The crackling of the flames was deafening, and she found herself stumbling through the doorway, into the night. Mud stood in the place where she had found him, blood flowing from his wounds, his face pale and white, tears trailing tracks down to his chin. But he was not alone this time. Thomas stood behind him, hands on the young boy's shoulders. Claude tried to speak, to call out, but her voice was a strangled gasp. Thomas began to shake his head.

"It's your fault Claude. You killed Mud,"

And then he grinned, and Mud's mouth tugged into a smile too, like two grinning dolls, cold and lifeless. Claude began to scream.

Her eyes opened, mouth sucking cold in greedily. Confused and disoriented, her body cold and sore, she remembered where she was, lying on the freezing ground in the forest. The camp fire was still crackling away, sending light dancing off the trees. It was then she realised that a hand was gripping her shoulder, the silhouette of a face hanging over her. Athos.

"You grew restless," He murmured in the dark. "A bad dream?"

Claude took a steadying breath, and then nodded a reply. The hand left her shoulder, and she unraveled herself from her cloak, sitting up. It was still late, the night still dark, but sleep would not come easily this time. And besides, part of her was terrified that it would, and she'd find herself back in the burning cottage. She shuffled backwards, her back finding the log behind her, arm pressing lightly against the musketeer's.

"You continue to dream of the boy," It wasn't a question, but a statement.

Claude screwed her eyes shut, the images of Mud's face flashing before them, and nodded, pulling the travelling cloak closer around her. Her breath was sending clouds of fog in the air, her nose rosy and numb. She gave a nervous chuckle. "You must think me terribly childish,"

"On the contrary, I sympathise greatly. You're not the only one plagued by memories of the past,"

She looked up at the musketeer in shock, and found his face to be truthful. "That's why you drink so often?"

"Yes and no," He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Don't get any ideas. You'd make a terrible drunk,"

Claude huffed out a low laugh, her gaze moving to the hot embers of the fire, flickering in front of them, shivering slightly. Without thinking, her head drooped to the side, coming to rest on Athos' arm, her eyes half shutting with exhaustion. She must not sleep. She couldn't. The musketeer moved his arm however, and she was suddenly aware of her position, thankful for the dark which hid her sudden blush, and terribly embarrassed. But before she could stutter an apology, Athos adjusted his cloak, snaking his arm around her so as to enclose the girl in its warmth,her head now resting on his chest. Claude's blush grew fiercer still, but she did not speak. The warmth was wonderfully inviting, and the steady rise and fall of Athos' breathing was soothing.

"What does a musketeer have to fear?" She muttered sleepily.

Athos did not answer for a second, and for a moment, Claude didn't think he would. But he finally opened his mouth to speak, his voice quiet and melancholy.

"Five years ago, my-"

"Claude!" Came a hiss from their right, and the girl jerked her head around, sitting up straight suddenly, heart pounding in her chest.

Thomas inched into the firelight, his gaze flickering over the two in front of him, eyes narrowing as it moved over the musketeer. But an apologetic look crossed his face. Claude didn't notice it however, she was too busy thinking back to the horror of her dream, half waiting for his face to break out in a terrifying grin.

"Can I talk to you? I can't sleep. I'd like to make an apology,"

Claude looked back at the fire for a few moments. An apology. Perhaps she'd have a better chance to explain herself. Yes, she needed that. The girl scrambled to her feet, glancing at Athos as she did so. The musketeer had a look of contempt on his face, watching Thomas carefully. He flashed a look at Claude, and she gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile in return, before leaving the light of the fire.

They began to walk further into the trees but Claude stopped the young man, eager to stay in sight of the camp. The forest was dark, pitch black in fact. She was not eager to get lost. Thomas seemed to hesitate, but stopped, turning to face her. She struggled to make out his expression in the gloom.

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I just don't like those musketeers. Don't trust them. They work for the rich, not us street dwellers,"

"Well I can't say I trust your friends. That Sebastien looks at me like a rabid dog!" She hissed back in through the dark.

But Thomas only scoffed. "Seb's harmless. He's a perfect gentlemen, he just likes charming the ladies,"

"No, Aramis is a gentlemen. Sebastien is just a creep! Any lady would tell you so!"

"And you're such an authority now?" Thomas' voice cut the air sharply. "All these years and you didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth,"

Claude looked down, the guilt coming strongly and quickly. Why hadn't she told him? Not for her own safety, Thomas was harmless, and kind-hearted. No, she knew the reason. Deep down, she just wanted to be one of the boys. Whenever a girl showed up, they treated her differently, as if they couldn't be themselves. She hadn't wanted that, hadn't wanted to be a stranger.

"I dunno," She lied. "It was just easier,"

"But you told them?" He asked, his voice dripping with venom. So much for a heartfelt apology.

"I didn't want to! It was an accident, I couldn't keep it from them, they would have found out anyway!"

Thomas sighed, not replying for a second. She could hear his feet crunching on the ground as he shuffled around. When he finally spoke again, his voice was sincere, eager. "Come with us Claude. It'll be like old times, trust me. We've got a good job coming up, we'll make a fortune, and they you can do anything you want. Go back to Paris, or maybe even cross the channel to England. What do you say?"

Claude shook her head. "I can't Thomas. Really. I've got a good life ahead of me now, a simple job, a roof over my head. Athos is even teaching me to read and write-"

But she was interrupted by Thomas scoffing once more. "Athos? The one from the fire. You two looked mighty cosy there, is that your new job? You ran off to become some musketeer's whor-"

She shoved him backwards, hearing the thud as he collided with a tree behind him. "You take that back!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll floor you Thomas, you cowardly, big headed, piece of shit!" Claude spat back, jamming a finger into his chest. "You left us! You left them to burn? Where were you? You can call me every name under the sun, but I was there! I heard them screaming, begging for their lives. I saw those men blowing them away, running them through! And where were you? Out getting supplies? No, you ran didn't you, you coward!"

She realised that there were tears on her face, hot, angry tears spilling down to her chin. Thomas didn't reply, the only sound was Claude's breath, huffing in and out, making cold clouds in the air.

"I was out on a job alright," Thomas' voice sounded strained. "An armed robbery. To try and get as much money as possible for us to leave. I didn't know, alright? Otherwise, I would have fought for them. I would have killed for them!" His voice cracked, and he stopped speaking.

The anger had left Claude, replaced only with despair. Thomas wasn't to blame. Dalvaux was. And he would die for his actions.

"Armed robbery?" She asked at last. "You always taught us not to hurt anyone?"

Thomas shrugged in the gloom, but she didn't see. "I had to do what I could. To bring in the money," He paused, as if considering something. "So you won't come with us then? With me?"

Claude gave a weary groan. "I'm sorry Thomas. But my life is in Paris,"

"I'm sorry then," Came the reply from the darkness.

Claude's brow furrowed in confusion. "For-for what?"

And then Thomas' fist connected with her face.


	16. Pieces of the Puzzle

Athos watched as Claude and Thomas disappeared from the light of the fire, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The way that young man looked at him set him on edge, the hatred that he could see written on his face. He tried to push his fears aside. After all, Claude had grown up with the boy. She trusted him with her life. But there was something Thomas was hiding. Perhaps Claude hadn't seen it, caught up in the emotions of finding her friend alive. No, there was something odd going on. Unable to sit still any longer, Athos pulled himself to his feet, and crept forward in the direction that the pair had left.

He stopped when he heard their voices. Thomas seemed to be apologising, just as he said he would. The musketeer strained his ears, listening carefully. Suddenly, their voices raised, and he heard Claude, her voice shaking with rage.

"You left us! You left them to burn? Where were you? You can call me every name under the sun, but I was there! I heard them screaming, begging for their lives. I saw those men blowing them away, running them through! And where were you? Out getting supplies? No, you ran didn't you, you coward!"

There it was again, that strength of spirit. She was upset, he could hear it in her voice, but he resisted the urge to go to her, to intervene. By the sounds of it, Claude had this under control. The voices quietened however, and he struggled to hear what they were saying. A hard, cold object pressed against the back of his head, and he heard the click of a pistol being cocked. Gritting his teeth, Athos slowly raised his hands.

"Get back to the fire," Sebastien told hims smugly. "There's a good chap,"

Slowly, as not to make any sudden movements that might cause the man to shoot, Athos inched back towards the fire. When they reached the circle of it's warmth, he felt Sebastien tugging at the dagger at his back, chucking it into the grass a short distance away, shortly followed by his sword and pistol. The musketeer fumed silently, his jaw working dangerously as he watched Sebastien step around to his side, the pistol now pointing into his temple.

"WAKEY WAKEY BOYS!" The man shouted loudly. The others jerked awake, their hands automatically going towards their weapons, but Sebastien tutted. "Make one move, and our dear friend here will have his brains blown out,"

"Where's Claude," Athos hissed through his teeth.

Sebastien only chuckled. "Calm down, we're getting to that. Now Pascal here is going to rid you all of your weapons, nice and easy. But if any of you so much as think of trying something, then BOOM. One less musketeer,"

"You make that sound like a bad thing," Pascal gave a grunt of laughter, his voice rasping and cruel.

He moved behind the others, grabbing their weapons with a cold sneer across his face the whole time. Porthos looked as if he was about to explode with rage, but Sebastien pressed the pistil harder into Athos' head, reinforcing his warnings. Once their weapons had been removed, Pascal moved around the group, tying their wrists tightly. When his friends were fully secured, it was Athos' turn. Pascal was by no means gentle, pulling the rope tight enough to cut into the skin of his wrists. As Pascal finished his job, there came a rustling from the trees behind them.

Thomas appeared into the fire light, a limp body of Claude swung over his shoulders. He looked thoroughly pissed off, his scowl deep set. His eyes narrowed once more when he looked at Athos, but he looked away quickly, as if he wasn't comfortable with the situation. He dropped Claude heavily to the ground at his feet, and Athos began to struggle towards him.

"If you hurt one hair on her head-" He snarled, his voice low, but he was interrupted as Sebastien slammed the pistol into his cheek, a sharp pain blossoming across his face. The musketeer stumbled, landing on his knees.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan barked. "That was uncalled for!"

"Relax, he- I mean she's just knocked out," Thomas mumbled, before coming closer to the fire and sitting down, resting his chin on his hands, staring into the flames.

"For now," Sebastien smiled. "Here's what we're going to do. First, we're going to take every piece of gold, every coin you have. Then you're going to tell me where you're going and why. And then. Well, we'll probably kill you, we'll see how it goes,"

"Do you seriously think we're carrying bags of gold? We're musketeers for God's sake, not rich merchants!" Aramis spat.

"Oh, we know," Pascal gave a laugh. "We just don't like musketeers as well have some fun while we're here,"

Athos glanced back at the shape on the ground a short distance away, just out of the circle of light. Thomas had no doubt lured Claude away from the group, perhaps to distract the girl, perhaps to distract Athos. Either way, it had worked. And look at the predicament they were in now. Athos cursed under his breath, desperately looking for a way out. That was when he noticed Claude move.

When Claude came too, the first thing she heard was voices, muffled voices which slowly came into focus as she regained consciousness. Her mouth was throbbing, and when she reached a hand up, she found her lips sticky with blood, and stinging when touched. There was blood in her mouth too, but she resisted the urge to spit. She had to stay quiet.

What had happened? She remembered going into the woods with Thomas, arguing, and then her mind went blank. But she wasn't in the woods anymore, she was back near the fire. She rolled quickly and quietly onto her side, and could see figures sillouetted in the fire light. Two men standing, another on their knees. And faintly, beyond the flames, Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan, hands behind their backs. Something wasn't right at all. She'd have to crawl in for a closer look.

Moving as quietly as possible, Claude started to drag herself forward on her stomach, listening. There was Sebastien's voice, and who was that? Aramis? Yes, it was. Sebastien seemed to be threatening them, still using that sickly sweet voice she'd come to despise over the course of the day. Why were they doing this? And Thomas? Thomas should know better! Once, no if, they got out of his, she'd-

Claude sucked in a breath as her hand sliced into something cold and sharp in the grass. She clenched her fingers shut, trying not to cry out as the pain lanced through the palm of her hand. She could feel the blood already beginning to seep from the wound, and looked down at the grass, trying to see what she'd grabbed by accident. A Sword. And there, beside it, a dagger as well, and slightly further out of reach, a pistol. Perfect. She grabbed the dagger, slipping it into her belt, and then scrambled forward once more, her fingers grasping for the pistol. It lay closer to the fire, and for a frightening second, she thought Pascal had seen her, but when she ducked back into the shadows, he didn't follow. Claude let out the breath she'd been holding.

"Just a couple of coins," Pascal said suddenly, and she froze, listening intently. She'd have to wait for her moment.

"Such a shame," Sebastien said jovially. He raised his pistol once more, and now, closer to he fire, Claude recognised the figure he was aiming at. "Now tell me gents, why so far from Paris?"

"We're on the King's business," Athos replied through gritted teeth.

"Yes, yes we gathered that. What business?"

No reply came. The crook gave a sigh, lowering the pistol slightly, one hand braced in a relaxed fashion on his waist. "Really gentlemen. So we're going to play it like that. Perhaps you'll be more talkative with your beloved leader's brains across the ground,"

As he raised the pistol once more, Claude fought back the strangled cry in her throat, raising her own. How did she do this? She found herself wishing that the other's had given her a lesson on guns. Her hand wavered slightly, and she closed her eyes, petrified that she'd hit Athos, pulling the trigger. Nothing happened. She hadn't cocked it! Hands shaking, she quickly pulled the small piece of metal back as she had watched the others do before, and then took a deep breath, taking a second to aim, and-

BANG

The shot echoed through the trees. Nobody moved for a few seconds, and she gave a small noise that was somewhere between a choke and a sob. And then Sebastien dropped to the ground.

The camp was suddenly all action, with Porthos giving a roar as he plowed forward, hands still behind his back, ramming into Pascal who was still looking at Sebastien in shock. Claude scrambled to her feet, pulling the dagger from her belt, and running into the fire light towards the big man. Pascal was her next target, and she plunged the dagger into his back, a scream of pain coming from the man's mouth. She pulled the knife free, wiping it on the ground quickly, and then sliced through Porthos' wrist ties.

"Here," She thrust the knife into his hands as if it had burnt her, taking a step back from the dying man, her face pale in the firelight. The musketeer turned to free his friends, and Claude slipped her own knife from her boot, returning to the other side of the fire.

"Claude!" Athos said urgently. "Are you injured?"

"I-I'm fine," Her voice shook, her hands following suite as she tried to slice through the man's bindings. When he was free, he pulled her back round in front of him, his hand reaching up to cup her face gently. His eyes were intense, searching as he inspected her face, his thumb reaching up to gently brush the blood away from her lip.

"You're sure?"

Claude forced a smile. "No worse for ware than you. You're head's bleeding,"

"It's of no concern," He shook his head, but she caught the slight narrowing of eyes. Clearly it hurt more than he let on. "That was a surprisingly good shot by the way,"

"I thought I might have hit you!" Claude's voice betrayed her, shaking once more as the situation overwhelmed her.

"Yes, well," Athos tried to jest. "If I'd known what you were planning, I may have suggested something else,"

Claude took a deep steadying breath, but failed, launching herself forward to wrap he arms around the man's neck. Athos let out a grunt of air as the impact hit him, but returned her embrace with a tight squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Claude began to ramble. I shouldn't have gone off with Thomas, I- Oh God, Thomas!"

She let go, rocketing to her feet and turning back to the fire. But the young man was already gone.

They rode hard until sunrise, leaving their campsite far behind, the hooves of their horses thundering on the dirt road beneath them. When Athos finally signaled for them to slow, Claude could have sung for joy. Her legs ached, and her lip was stinging, swollen. And of course, her eyes were drooping, her lack of sleep catching up with her. She nodded off numerous times, jolting awake as she began to slip off the horse, heart pounding as she regained her balance. Of course Athos was always there to tighten his grip around her waist, ensuring her safety, but the action always elicited a fierce blush in the girl and a pounding heart. So they continued, their horses plodding along until earlier morning, the song birds flitting overhead, until the trees on either side started to thin out, revealing a rich and fertile land beyond.

"We should stop and let the horses rest," Aramis suggested, as they crossed a small, stone bridge over a babbling river. "Even for an hour. We should have left anyone behind by now,"

But Athos looked unsure.

"Oh please!" Claude pleaded, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "If I nod off one more time I'm going to fall off the horse!"

With a sigh, the musketeer nodded, and they guided their horses down the slope at the other side of the bridge, coming to rest at the edge of the river. As their mounts quenched their thirst, the group took some bread and dried meat from their saddle bags, chewing halfheartedly. Once she'd filled the yawning cavern that was her grumbling stomach, Claude found a comfortable position on the ground, and settled down to sleep.

But it didn't come easily, even with her tiredness. The scenes from last night kept flickering in her eyes. She'd killed two men. Two men who deserved it, but still. It left a sour taste in her mouth. So by the time she finally did drift off, it only felt like a couple of moments before one of her friends was shaking her awake. She sat up with a groan, massaging her head, and listened to the sound of the river. The morning was getting warmer, the sun bright in the sky. An idea came to her. Claude quickly began to slide her boots off, wriggling her feet in the sandy dirt below before standing, removing her cloak and starting to unbutton her jerkin.

"Uh...what are you doing?" D'Artagnan asked as she chucked her outer layers on the ground by her horse.

"Waking up!" Came her only reply, before she marched down to the riverside.

The water was fairly fast flowing, but shallow, with plenty of small rocks she could sit on. But she had to get in first. Claude raised a careful foot, lowering it slowly until her big toe touched the water. It was bitingly cold, and for a second, she nearly changed her mind, but Claude grit her teeth, and plunged her whole foot into the stream, followed by the next, gasping a strangled curse at the intense cold that engulfed them. She paddled about for a few seconds, letting herself adjust to the cold, her feet growing slightly numb, and then bent down, cupping her hands and filling them with water before splashing her face.

The temperature of the water nearly took her breath away, but after a few more splashes, she was fully awake, if not shivering slightly. Strands of hair stuck to her fore head dribbling water down her face, and there was a stray drip falling from her chin, soaking into her shirt, but overall, she felt much better, and ready to face another few hours of riding. She sat down on one of the rocks sticking out of the freezing water, her hand going once more to her lip, finding it still sore, but slightly less puffy, and found the young man was watching with a raised eyebrow, and she stopped flashing him a grin.

"What? The water is lovely and warm!" Her shivering evident in her quaking voice.

"I'll take your word for it," D'Artagnan scoffed, before moving off to ready his horse.

It was then Claude noticed Athos, watching her progress as he mounted his horse. His expression was unreadable, and when she met his eyes, offering a small smile, he looked away. Feeling slightly put out, Claude decided that he must be getting impatient. Pouting, and then regretting doing so, as her split lip stung, she shuffled back out of the stream, she returned to her horse.

The village was far too quiet when the arrived. It set Claude's teeth on edge, her heart pounding in her throat. Something wasn't right, and she wasn't the only one thinking it. The other's look uneasy, and the horses were obviously picking up on their tense moods, becoming agitated. Claude's mare started to shake her head, giving a low whiny, so the girl leaned forward, giving the beast a comforting clap on it's neck. It was late morning, but there was nobody to be seen in the village, which was extremely odd for this time of day. A door ahead, and a boy strode out, freezing in his tracks before darting back inside. Very odd indeed.

As they approached the centre of the village, Claude could make out faces in the windows. Women began to lean out of them, grabbing the shutters and slamming them tight, aiming a reproachful look at the group.

"These people are scared," Aramis muttered to the others. "Something has them spooked,"

"Or someone," Porthos replied.

Claude gulped back the knot of fear rising in her throat, and turned her attention back to the house they'd seen the boy leave. The door slammed open once more, and a large woman brandishing a kitchen knife strode forward, lifting her skirts up as she thundered towards them. Her face was set in an unamused scowl, and there was fire in her eyes. She stopped a few paces away from them, the knife raised in warning.

"State your business," She growled. "And I won't stand for any nonsense!"

"Madame, we are the King's Musketeers. We received word that a fugitive was hiding near your village," Aramis explained politely.

To their surprise, her scowl deepened. "Took you long enough! We sent that message more than a week back!" She turned away from them, hefting her skirts once more, and started back towards the house. "Come with me!"

Exchanging a glance, they slid off their horses, and started to follow the woman. The boy appeared once more, and took their reigns without a word, no doubt commanded by his mother. The ducked under the low doorway into the cottage, and found themselves in a cosy room with an open fireplace, although it wasn't lit, with a table in the center. The woman was already pottering around the fire, and motioned for them to sit. The chairs scraped out against the stone floor, and Claude shuffled around on her chair nervously.

"Can you tell us more about this man," Athos asked, breaking the silence. He was still standing, and when the woman turned around, she pursed her lips at him.

"Started a month back. Some of the children like to go off and play in the woods past the farm, my boy being one of them. Food started going missing from the village, and my boy seemed agitated. I finally got it out of him that they'd been stealing for some hermit, living in an abandoned house in the woods. Of course, he's not been back out there since,"

"What did the hermit look like?" Aramis asked.

The woman didn't reply, and instead, strode to the door, opening it before shouting outside. "JOHN, GET IN HERE!"

The boy appeared suddenly, sliding into the room and look warily at the men. Claude gave him a small smile, trying to reassure him, but his eyes just widened slightly, looking even more afraid. The smile slipped from her face.

"Tell them what you saw boy,"

"T-The man had a beard. And nice clothes but they were all torn. And he-" He stuttered, looking at his mother. "He only had one leg,"

"One leg?" Claude choked out before the others could speak.

"I-I think he just lost it. His-his breeches were stained with-with blood,"

Dalvaux had lost his leg because of her. Perhaps the wound had gotten infected, who knew. But instead of feeling hatred, or triumph, Claude only felt sick to the stomach. This man had lost a limb, and he was still terrorising people. Could they really stop him? And what about her? She'd mutilated someone, albiet, an evil man. On top of that, she was now a killer. The uneasy feeling that had started in her stomach after last nights events, grew.

"There's been odd men on the road since. Bandits and the like. Some have made it as far as the village, and the men scared them off for the mean time, but they'll be back. That hermit is up to no good. So what are you going to do about it?"

"The hermit? Dalvuax?" D'Artagnan asked the others quietly.

"It sounds likely," Aramis replied. "But then again, it could just be some creepy old man. And the bandits may not be related. We live in dangerous times after all,"

"But if they are his men, they could be watching the route to this house. They might spirit him away before we even get there," Porthos added.

The sat in a solemn silence for a few seconds, before Claude finally spoke.

"I have an idea...but I don't think you're going to like it,"

Claude stood, her eyes staring off into space at nothing in particular as she wound the binding slowly around her chest. No matter how she thought of her task, it didn't play out well in her head. Someone was going to get hurt. She was sure of it. Now that she was here, Claude was regretting her decision to come along. She might have to face Dalvaux again. And she wasn't sure how she was going to handle it.

Her arms were protesting as she attempted to tie off the binding at her back, and the cloth slipped out of her hands multiple times. The last time she'd had to tie chest bindings had been years ago, and even then, she'd struggled for an age. Once they were on, she'd just left them be. But she didn't have long. She had to get this job done. Just as Claude was about to give up and call for their host, a sharp knock sounded from the door behind her, without turning around, she called for the woman to enter, and heard the door swing open.

"My apologies, I didn't realise you weren't dressed," Claude glowed a bright shade of red at the sound of Athos' voice, quickly looking over her shoulder. The musketeer was already ducking back out of the door, eyes up at the ceiling, his cheeks their own shade of red.

"Athos wait!" She stopped him, and the musketeer froze in his place, still looking away. "I-I can't get this blasted thing tied. Can..Can you give me a hand?"

Her voice came out as a squeak, and she watched the man hesitate before he gave a small nod, stepping into the room and closing the door. She turned away again to save herself the embarrassment of looking him in the eye, staring fixatedly at a point ahead of her. Deft fingers took the end of the bindings from her, and she folded her arms in front of her chest, feeling extremely self-conscious. She'd gained a lot of weight since coming off the streets, but her hips still stick out, and her ribs were as bony as ever. No one had ever seen her like this.

"How are you feeling?" Athos broke the awkward silence.

"Alright. My lip isn't as bad,"

"That's not what I meant. You've hardly spoken a word since last night,"

Claude was quiet was a few moments. Athos was right of course, she'd hadn't really spoken more than a few words to any of them. Every times she opened her mouth, she felt slightly sick. "I just don't want to think about it,"

"Well, if, or when you do..." He left his invitation open, but Claude didn't reply.

Athos finished tying the binding in silence, pulling it ever so gently as to avoid tying it too tight. Claude could feel his fingers moving against her back, and she clenched her eyes tight shut, trying to control the blush that was making her face feel hot. Athos stopped his work, and she gave a small, relieved sigh, until she felt gentle fingers running along her shoulder blade.

"This scar, what happened?" He asked quietly, and Claude tried to think of the one he was talking about.

"Oh, that one?" Her voice was still annoyingly high pitched. She cleared her throat, and it returned to normal. "Some drunk with a broken bottle. I think I was about eight,"

"And this one?" He ran his fingers along the skin just above her hip, and Claude suppressed a shiver, taking a quick intake of breath.

"Another cut-purse. Took my earnings for the day,"

Claude took a step forward, grabbing the rough shirt from the chair in front of her, slipping it over her head. Once she was covered, she picked up the rough spun tunic, and turned to the musketeer. He was still watching her, a peculiar look in his eyes.

"You've suffered many hardships," He murmured, his voice quiet. "You don't have to do this Claude,"

"I do Athos," She told him quietly, slipping her arms into her tunic. It was scratchy against her neck, no where near as comfortable as the jerkin. Her hands went to the buttons, but she was shaking violently, her fingers fumbling over the holes. A hand took hers, moving it away of the way.

"Let me,"

As the musketeer buttoned her tunic, Claude was aware how painfully close he was. She could feel his breath on her face, his fingers through the thin material as they went to work. The blush returned in full, and her heart was pounding in her chest. But here thoughts returned to the task ahead, and the sick feeling blossomed again in her stomach.

"Athos," She started, looking up at the man in front of her. His eyes met hers, and she felt her breath catch in her throat as she tried to force the words out. Words that she had never spoken during her time on the streets. It did no good to admit weakness. "Athos, I'm scared,"

He didn't reply for a few moments, but his eyes seemed pained, his brow furrowing. His hands left the buttons on her tunic, and he raised on, cupping her chin, and caressing the skin of her neck for a few seconds before he stooped down. Claude felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart beating doubly fast, but there was flash of hesitation in the man's eyes, and his lips met her cheek, placing a gentle but swift kiss, before he stood up straight. He cleared his throat.

"You'll be fine. We'll be right behind you. Come, we should get this done quickly,"

He turned, striding quickly from the room, leaving the girl standing by herself. Claude let out a breath. Why was she disappointed? What had she expected him to do? Kiss her? Claude gave a humourless chuckle. Why on earth would he do that? No, he'd just wanted to comfort her, in the manner that a good friend would. Because that was all he was, a good friend. So why did she feel so bad?

Oh stop kidding yourself already. Claude thought. You know why.

Giving a frustrated sigh, Claude reached back, trying her hair up in an uneven mess, and stomped out of the room. The others were waiting outside, mounted on their horses. But she wouldn't be riding, oh no. Because once again, Claude was dressed up as a young boy, in borrowed clothes, ready to play her part.

Of course, when she'd suggested heading to the cottage with the other children who were still supplying Dalvaux with food, the protests that had come her way had been deafening. But no matter how much they argued, it was the only feasible plan any of them came up with. So here she was. Heading back into the lions den. And quite frankly, Claude felt like she was about to pee herself at any second.

"Remember, keep quiet, keep out of the way. Just in and out, confirm the number of guards if any, and try and grab a glimpse of Dalvaux, but stay out of his sight. We don't want him recognising you," Aramis told her, and she gave a quick nod.

"Quick and quiet. Just like cutting purses,"

"You have your knife, don't be afraid to use it if necessary," D'Artagnan added.

"Good Luck," Porthos gave her a reassuring nod,"

The last of the four was silent. Athos sat atop his horse, looking uneasy, watching her carefully from below his wide hat. Claude looked at him pointedly, expecting some words of encouragement, but none came. In fact, he couldn't even meet her eye. The girl gave an exasperated sigh.

"Well then. Better get this done,"

She was nearly at the outskirts of town, the loaf of bread that was part of her disguise tucked under her arm, when she heard the hooves of the horse approaching swiftly behind her. Sure that one of them had forgotten some important advice, Claude stopped, turning to meet them. Athos reigned in his horse, coming to a sudden stop, where he quickly slid to the ground, seemingly out of breath.

"Athos, what-,"

Claude was interrupted as the musketeer pulled her to him, hands grasping her waist tightly as he drew her in, tight to his own body. Her lips were quickly covered by his own, his mouth gentle on hers. Her eyes, which had widened in shock at first, fluttered shut as she turned to putty, her own hands reaching up to grasp his shoulders. The girl had no idea what to do, how to respond, but she didn't care, and in the moment gave into instinct, simply enjoying the softness of Athos' lips, the taste of his mouth, the tickle of his mustache on the soft skin of her face. When he finally pulled away, she was gasping for breath, a bright, ruddy colour covering her cheeks.

"Be safe," Was his only explanation, his eyes imploring, before he quickly mounted his horse, bringing the beast around and riding off.

Claude was left standing, mouth open, cheeks aglow, thoroughly confused.


	17. Undercover and Under Attack

When Claude finally got her feet moving again, she stumbled, tripping over herself and nearly dropping her bread. What had just happened? Was she still asleep? The girl gave herself a hard pinch on the arm, pouting at the sting it left. She was indeed awake. And that meant that Athos had just kissed her. A giddy grin began to slip across her face, but she stopped herself.

Get yourself together Claude. She thought. You're not some giggling, stupid young girl. There are more pressing matters to think of.

More pressing matters indeed. She had a job to do, a dangerous job at that, and she'd need her full concentration. Still...it would be a ten minute walk until she reached the spot in the woods that the children would be meeting. She could afford herself a small moment of weakness. Claude let the smile slip back onto her face, feeling the warmth bubbling up through her chest.

She'd known for a while. Perhaps she just hadn't wanted to admit it, or perhaps she had been scared to. But no, Claude had known what her whirlwind of emotions towards the musketeer had meant. She'd never felt it before, not to this extent, but there was only one thing it could be. Claude was falling in love with Athos.

And perhaps...if that kiss had been anything to go by...perhaps he felt the same?

The woods began to thicken around her, and she gave a her head a quick, clearing shake. There was no point jumping to conclusions, it might have been a spur of the moment thing. And anyway, she was nearly there, and needed to concentrate. Who knows who might be watching. Claude put her head down a forged forward, naturally falling into a quiet step, hunched over slightly, her stature small. After a few months in her new life, it was surprisingly easy to slip back into purse cutting mode.

She could hear voices ahead, light and quiet. Through the trees stood three figures, all small and obviously young, two boys and a little girl. As she drew closer, they stopped talking, staring at her wide eyed. Once of the boys grabbed the little girls arm, and looked ready to bolt, but didn't move as Claude gave a small smile, raising her hand in greeting.

"Hello,"

Silence. No reply.

"I uh-," Claude cleared her throat. "I heard there was work going,"

"Says who?" One of the boys asked suspiciously. He couldn't have been older than twelve.

"John. From the village," She took a step forward, holding out the bread. "I managed to smuggle something out. If my brother knew I was here, he'd kill me," Her laugh sounded genuine, she was glad to hear. Mind you, she'd been lying to kids for years. Why should now be any different?

The little girl pushed past the boy holding her, a smile spreading across her face. She was small, around nine years old maybe, pretty, with a little button nose and rosy cheeks. Judging by the blonde hair that matched the boy's, they must have been related.

"I'm Anna," She chirruped. "I'm not supposed to be here too, but I followed Samuel out last week and now he can't keep me away,"

"I told you Anna, it's dangerous," The boy growled, folding his arms, before looking up at Claude. "Come on then. We better get a move on,"

They started off through the woods, and a rumblings of nerves began in her stomach. She forced her face to stay neutral.

"I'm Claude by the way,"

"You're not from around here,"

"I just arrived in the village. My brother was a soldier, but he's looking for work now. Parents are dead so I followed him out here. I take it Anna is your sister,"

Samuel' reply was laced with a bitter undertone. The boy was clearly older than his years. "One of many. The older ones help Mother in the fields. We've got a lot of mouths to feed, that's why I took the job. But there's something off about it, I don't like Anna joining in, but the little idiot wont stop turning up,"

"I want to help!" Anna huffed. Samuel only rolled his eyes in return.

The other boy followed a few strides behind them, and hadn't spoken a word. Claude looked back over his shoulder to find the boy watching her carefully. She smiled, but his face never changed from the same, neutral expression.

"Who's your friend?"

"Thierry. He doesn't talk much. Now hush, we're almost there,"

They had been walking up a steep slope, and finally came to the crest of the hill. Ahead, lay a small, run down old cottage, ivy growing up the walls, and the roof half caved in. Claude suppressed a shudder, memories of the last run down house she'd been in running through her head. There were two men outside, and they were clearly expecting company, as they stood with their hands on the buts of their pistols, tall and intimidating. One of the men narrowed his eyes as they approached.

"Who's this?" He grunted, nodding to Claude. The girl gulped nervously, her breath catching in her throat.

"Claude. He wants in,"

The man stretched a humourless smile across his face. "The more the merrier. Bring the food,"

The man sighed as Claude handed the load of bread, wrinkling his nose up. "Is there nothing better in this pit? No meat?"

"We can't smuggle that out," Samuel muttered.

With a grunt, the brute turned around, disappearing into the shadows of the doorway. Claude hung back, letting the others go first. This was where it got complicated. If Dalvaux saw her, recognised her, she was dead, and the children might be too. She hadn't thought of that. She was putting them at risk just by being there.

God help us.

It was dark inside the cottage, and earthy smelling, although not unpleasant. The roof was missing tiles here and there, and when she looked up, Claude could see the trees swaying above them, the leaves rustling in the wind. In her old life, this would have made a pleasant home for her and her friends. But now, the house held only danger.

How many men were here? The two at the door, and there, another in the shadows that she couldn't see, just inside. The group entered the main room, which was slightly better lit thanks to the small windows which sent beams of light onto the stone, leaf strewn floor, dust dancing in the glow. There were three more men sitting around the table in here, playing cards. They looked up when the group entered, but otherwise didn't react. A rasping cough dragged Claude's attention to a bundle of rags lying on a ramshackle bed in the corner. Horror started to take over her as she realised their occupant, and then her eyes widened in shock.

Dalvaux looked like death. Even under the pile of woolen blankets, he looked feeble, thin, shaking, as if feeling the cold. His face was pale, and covered in a sweat, eyes heavily lidded. His cheeks were hollow, sunken. It was the face of a dying man. A smell of sickness, of rot wafted towards her, and as the man moved under the blankets, a bloody, dirty bandaged stump poked out from under the covers. So it was true. Dalvaux had lost his leg.

Good. Claude thought to herself. Serves him right, he's evil.

So why did she feel so uncomfortable. It was the same feeling that had struck her when she'd shot Sebastien the other night, a deep, sickening guilt. They were bad men, they deserved to dye. But by killing them, she felt just as bad, tainted even.

"The food," The guard who had let them in commanded.

Samuel produced a bottle from under his arm. Milk by the looks of it. Anna held out a single apple, looking proud of herself. A few carrots were Thierry's contribution.

"Pitiful once again," The guard gave a weary sigh. "Is there no meat in this pathetic excuse for a village?"

"We can't smuggle it out," Samuel replied. "It's far too expensive, they'll notice,"

The guard sighed once again, motioning for them to put the food on the table. "Right, off you go then,"

"What about our money?" Anna asked, her bottom lip pouting. Samuel shot her a disapproving look.

The guard crossed the room towards his boss, scooping up a purse from under the blankets. He opened it, grabbing something from its contents, and then returned to them, practically shoving four coins into Samuel's hands.

"What's this?" Samuel asked, frowning. "It's two coins each, that was the deal,"

"Yeah, well you never told us you'd be bringing a friend did you?" The guard spat back. "Now scram before I take it back, you're lucky I'm not cutting your tongue out for that cheek!"

"Another child?" Came a rasp from across the room. Claude froze, not daring to breath. "How did they find out? No telling anyone I said,"

Claude's mouth opened and shut, as she struggled to decide what to do. If she spoke, Dalvaux might recognise her. But if not...Before she could decide what to do however, Anna piped up.

"John told him about the job. He need's money for his brother and him,"

"John?"

"Yeah, the boy who came a few weeks back, his mother found out and-"

"Shut up Anna," Her brother hissed at her, giving her a shove. But it was too late. The damage was done.

"You were told the rules," Dalvaux wheezed, and the covers began to move. Coughing and spluttering, he pulled himself up, so he was sitting, looking at them. Claude quickly looked down, shuffling further behind the others. "No squealing to your parents, or anyone else for that matter. Now what a mess we're in,"

"It won't happen again sir," Samuel muttered.

"No. It won't," Dalvaux' smile was stretched tightly across his thin, pale face, like a grinning corpse, like the grins that Claude had seen in her dreams. She knew that smile, and what it meant.

"Run!" Claude thundered. "NOW!"

Her outburst took the men by surprise, and it gave her time to grab Samuel by the arm, dragging him from the room. The other children followed at their heels, Anna uttering confused shrieks as the terror overtook her. There was shouting behind them, and footsteps, and Claude could here Dalvaux' rasp over the noise, thin but still commanding.

"Don't let them reach the village. And keep one of them alive. We might need some leverage!"

They reached the doorway, and the young woman shoved the children out in front of her, into the dappled light of the forest. The sound of gunfire was deafening, and Claude flinched, automatically reaching her hands to her head in protection. But the shot wasn't meant for her, and she watched in horror as poor, silent Thierry dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap. Another victim to Dalvaux' tyranny. Anna was screaming, crying, but Samuel was still moving, dragging his sister into the trees, away from the house. The three of them stumbled down the slope, ducking between trees. Another shot and then another, and another, echoing through the forest, and Claude ducked, the tree to her right sending a shower of splintered wood flying.

At the speed they were travelling at, across the uneven ground, it was a wonder they were still on their feet, but before Claude could even think about looking out for roots or logs, there was a cry behind her, and Anna went sprawling across the undergrowth. Claude shuddered to a halt, ducking behind a tree, and looking across at the fallen girl. Her brother was desperately trying to pick her up, the girl crying and clutching at him. There was no way they were making it out of here alive.

No. No more. A deep, fiery anger rose in Claude's chest, momentarily dampening the fear, and she flung herself across the ground towards them, ignoring the thundering of feet towards them. With a great heave, Claude pulled the crying girl onto her shoulders, feeling the child's hands locking around her neck. Adjusting her hold on the little girl's legs, Claude started sprinting for all her worth. It was difficult, keeping low and ducking between the trees with the child on her back, but there was no way she was letting her go. No way in hell. She'd failed Mud, failed Fred and Gaspard, and all of the other boys from the streets. Failed Thierry. But not Anna. Not Samuel. Not today. Not ever.

She could feel Anna's tears soaking into the back of her tunic, the girl's grip painfully tight, cutting off air. Her strength was beginning to leave her, her arms aching, legs beginning to grow shaky. The forest was thick here, bushes growing high around the tree trunks. Perhaps they could lose their pursuers.

"Samuel!" She hissed, slowing, and ducking behind a tree. The boy stopped, glancing back over his shoulder, before ducking through the bushes towards them. "Keep low, follow me. And stay quiet,"

The bushes scratched at their faces, fallen leaves slippery underfoot, twigs snapping. Claude grimaced, Samuel' footsteps painfully loud to compared to her light, trained ones, sure that they were about to be caught. The gunshots continued, but when she looked behind her, the men were a small distance away, and weren't aiming at them, but over them. It was then that Samuel caught her arm, his voice low, and panicked.

"Up ahead! Another one!"

Claude froze, not daring to move, but her heart soared as she recognised the figure ahead. Porthos stood in his trademark stance, feet apart, pistol raised. As he fired, a cry rang out behind them, and Claude knew his shot had hit its target. Claude scrambled forward, trying to keep low.

"Go Samuel, go! He's a musketeer!"

They reached the man without injuring, ducking behind a tree. Claude crouched down, letting the crying girl slide off of her back, before leaning against the tree, catching her breath.

"Boy am I glad to see you," She gasped out, peaking around the tree trunk. A gun shot sounded, and Porthos ducked behind the tree opposite her, where he began to reload his pistol.

"Decided to start the party without us? Shame on you!" His grin was wide, infectious, his eyes sparkling, and was oddly calming. She wasn't alone this time. She could get the children out safely.

But the men had taken advantage of Porthos' pause in fire, the undergrowth crackling as they ran forward. One of them appeared between the two of them, raising his pistol, but got no further, his body whipping backwards as a shot ran out.

"Really Claude," Aramis called as he lowered his rifle. "You're like a magnet for trouble, there's never a dull moment when you're involved,"

"Who are they?" Samuel asked, looking between the men. "Why are they here,"

"They're musketeers. I'm not here with my brother, I'm here with them, looking for the man in that cottage," Claude explained quickly, flinching as the last man appeared between the trees, before swiftly being dispatched by a Porthos, who jumped out from his hiding place, slamming the man's head into the tree trunk. The forest was quiet.

Aramis strode over quickly, his eyes quickly looking Claude up and down, giving her the once over. "Are you injured?"

Claude shook her head. "No, surprisingly not," She panted back, still trying to gasp in air. "Where- where's D'Artagnan...and Athos," Her face flushed slightly at the latter's name, but luckily it seemed unnoticeable in her exerted stated.

"They took watch on the others side of the forest. No doubt they're racing here after hearing those shots," Porthos told her. "We can't wait though, we need to get these two back to the village, it'll be easier to defend,"

"The horses, quickly!" Aramis added, before turning a sprinting back the way he had come.

Dalvaux was fuming, and even in his weakened state, his men didn't want to cross them. They entered the house with their heads low, not quite meeting his eye. The man took a swig of wine, the liquid dribbling down his chin. He was drinking a lot more than normal, but it helped to dull the pain,and mask the smell that he knew was his rotting leg. He was going to die in this pit, he knew that. And it didn't help his temper any.

"Well?" He spat, looking between the two men who had entered. "Where are they? Are they dead?"

"Musketeers. They're here," One of the men grumbled. There was silence for a second.

"What?"

"Musketeers-"

"I know what you said!" Dalvaux snapped. "Where are they now?"

"Heading back to the village. They killed two men, and the rest have gone after them. Thought we better come back in case there were more," The man explained quickly, but Dalvaux only scoffed.

"No, you thought you'd get away from the fight. There's still no sign of the rest of our boys?"

"No. They haven't arrived yet,"

Dalvaux shifted, wincing as the pain lanced through him. His men were loyal in Paris, but many had abandoned him when he'd run. There were still a few arriving in dribs and drabs, after his money no doubt. But he was no where near as strong as he had been before that idiot of a boy had stabbed him. And now the musketeers had arrived, no doubt hunting him down. What was it about that boy that was driving them? Stupid, no good soldiers, obsessed with glory no doubt. He wasn't going to die by their hand, and he wasn't going to hang.

"Have my horse ready, we leave as soon as it's dark,"

"Your leg, it's not a great idea-"

"Did I ask you for your opinion!? Get it done!" He raged,before bursting into a fit of racking coughs.

Perhaps he wouldn't die in this house after all.

Anna was still crying by the time they reached the horses, quiet, snuffling sobs, her face tear streaked and snotty. Her arms were wrapped around Porthos' neck this time, giving Claude a bit of a rest, and the musketeer seemed to have taken a shine to the little girl. She'd been wary at first, terrified in fact, and who could blame her, the man was a giant, but after one of his charming smiles, and some softly spoken words of encouragement , he had her full trust, and she'd done her best to calm her tears.

Samuel on the other hand, was surprisingly calm, his chest puffed out, pulling himself up to his full height. There was a slight shake in his hands however, and Claude could tell he was hiding his fear, trying to be grown up. He stuck close to Porthos' heels, clearly wanting to be as close to his sister as possible. A brave boy, but then again, children were often a lot stronger than adults thought, especially when the occasion called for it.

The children were safely mounted on the horses when the gunshot burst out in the quiet of the forest. Claude ducked behind a tree, spotting more of Dalvaux' men approaching. Where were they all coming from? There had only been six at most in the cottage, were there more hiding in the trees?

"Claude!" Aramis called as he swung himself up onto the horse behind Samuel. "Claude get on, quickly!"

The girl looked back through the trees at the approaching men, who were now running towards them. She hesitated towards the horses, and then stopped. "You'll get further without me weighing you down, go!"

"Claude!" the musketeer was shouting furiously behind her, and she pleaded with him in her head not to follow, to take the children and go. Dashing out from behind her hiding place, she began to wave her arms, catching her pursuer's attention.

"OI!" She shouted. "You call that a shot? You couldn't hit a target if it was right in front of you!"

Claude ducked as another shot hit the tree beside her, and then burst into a run, leaves and branches hitting at her face as she went. The sound of hooves disappearing behind her told her that the musketeers had taken the opportunity and were leaving. The only problem was that she had no idea what to do now. Get away obviously, and then try and hide, and sneak back to the village. But for now, not getting hit was her priority.

Looking over her shoulder was a big mistake, sending a thrill of fear down her spine. They were close, gaining in fact, at least three of them, possibly four. She put on a burst of speed, feeling her tired legs protesting, her chest heaving as she tried to suck in air. The binding around her chest was making her feel breathless, dizzy, but she couldn't stop, not even for a second. And then she heard the thundering of hooves ahead of her. Did Dalvaux' men have horses? If they did, she was dead.

They appeared, their horses soaring over a fallen log and landing with a thud on the leaf strewn ground. Claude found whatever energy she had left in her, and pushed ahead, weaving between the trees, hands up covering the back of her head as she ducked from the gunfire behind her. Athos reigned in his horse, reaching a grasping hand out to the girl. She grabbed it, flinging herself up and over the horse, her head hanging off the other side. They were already moving again, the musketeer grabbing her by the back of the tunic and righting her before she could slide off the other side. D'Artagnan fired off a covering shot, sending their attackers sprawling into cover, and then they were off through the trees, Claude holding on for dear life as branches flashed by, the horse bounding over obstacles in their way.

The forest began to thin, and they found themselves coming out into the fields outside of the village. The road was ahead, a dark brown river snaking across the green expanse ahead. They finally began to slow to a canter, and Claude could gasp in some much needed air, slouching back against the musketeers chest, her eyes shut as her heaving chest fought against the binding. How had she worn this thing for so many years? It was torture!

"Where are the children?" Athos asked urgently behind her, the rumble of his voice against her back. Claude's eyes flickered back open.

"With Porthos and Aramis. Dalvaux's men shot one of the boy's, Thierry,"

D'Artagnan uttered a curse, pulling his horse closer to theirs. "So it's him them? Dalvaux?"

Claude didn't answer for a second, before giving a slow nod. "He's ill though. Dying by the looks of it. John was right, he's missing a leg, and I think the wound is rotting by the smell of it,"

"You're sure?" Athos asked.

"Very. We had a boy who got stabbed in a fight, the wound went bad. I'd recognise that smell anywhere,"

They rode in silence for a few minutes, pressing on towards the road, until they reached the low wooden fence beside it, the horses jumping it with ease. When Athos spoke again, his voice was low. "What happened at the hideout?"

"It was me," Claude muttered bitterly. "He didn't recognise me, just asked how I knew about the job. There was a little girl with us. Anna. She blurted out about John, and then that was it. They attacked. Thierry didn't stand a chance, I have no idea how the rest of us got out,"

The musketeer didn't reply, but his arms tightened around her waist, and his head lowered slightly. She could feel the scratch of his beard on the skin above her ear, and when he finally spoke, his breath tickled at her skin.

"Do not blame yourself. You did well to get the other's to safety,"

Claude huffed out a breath. She neither had the energy or desire to argue. Of course Athos would know she was blaming herself, he always seemed to know. It was almost infuriating. Almost. It was difficult to be angry with him when he was so clearly trying to provide some comfort. Her thoughts flashed back to their parting earlier in the day, a slight blush covering her cheeks. Claude looked up, turning her head at an awkward angle so she could see him properly. The musketeer was watching her carefully, his eyes full of concern. They flickered down, towards her lips, and he began to lean forward.

The gunshot went off like a crack of thunder, and the man's eyes opened wide, in a shock, and pain, his body jerking forward in the saddle, a grunt escaping his lips. Their horse whinnied in distress, shifting nervously below them, a pawing at the ground as if ready to rear. Claude caught the reins as they slipped from Athos' grasp, but the horse continued to rise off of her front hooves slightly. Before Claude could stop him, Athos had slid off of the beast, landing on the ground with a heavy thud.


	18. Edge of the Knife

It felt like an age before Claude's horse had finally stopped screaming, and had placed all four hooves on the ground. She slid to the ground, not stopping to worry about where the shot had come from, or who had fired it. She could see D'Artagnan pulling his horse around ahead, could hear him shouting something, but her head was a daze of blind panic.

Arms grabbed her at either side, and she began struggling against them, trying to pull her arms out of their grip. But whoever held her only tightened their hold. She could see Athos on the ground ahead, unmoving, and the fear finally overtook her. It was then that Claude began to shout.

"Let me go, he's hurt, I need-"

There was a pistol pressed against her head, but Claude didn't seem to notice, and continued to struggle, her shouts escalating to a mixture of pleading and cursing. She only stopped when a figure stepped in front of her, blocking her view. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she recognised him, but they were quickly filled with rage when she spotted the still smoking pistol in his hand.

"You're going to hang for this Thomas!" She hissed, fighting back tears. "This and every other death you've caused,"

Her old friend looked defiant, but he couldn't meet her eye, weighing the pistol in his hand before removing another shot from his belt and beginning to reload it. When he finally looked up, he looked past her, shaking his head and sighing.

"Put down your weapons unless you want to get her killed,"

One of the pair of hands left her, and D'Artagnan was soon shoved to her side. His captor laughed. "Not that it'll help much. You're already dead,"

"Ready to finish what you started Thomas? Wiping out the last of your so called friends?" Claude's voice was laced with venom.

"The girl first, just to shut her up," The man holding her whined, and gave her a hard shove.

Thomas moved out of the way, and she landed on her hands and knees in the dirt, feeling the sting of grit on her palms. Ignoring the men behind her, she quickly crawled forward to the musketeer ahead, hand's pawing at Athos' limp body. His eyes were shut, his face pale, and for a second, she was sure he was dead. Claude pressed a shaking hand to his throat, letting out a ragged breath as she felt the pulse beneath his skin. He was alive. For now. His eyelids flickered slightly at her touch, and the girl gently cupped the musketeer's face, feeling the scrape of his beard on her raw hands.

"Athos! Athos can you hear me? Athos, please-" Her pleading was interrupted as a painful sob erupted from her throat, her eyes stinging. Before meeting this man, she'd hardly ever cried. Now she was on the verge of tears, cradling his lifeless body. She froze as she heard the voices behind her.

"Come on, get it done! We need to get to Dalvaux-"

"Dalvaux?!" She whipped around, voice choking on her words. "You work for Dalvaux?"

It all made sense now. How Dalvaux' men had known where to look, how Thomas had escaped so easily, and why he was out here. He'd been working for the man the whole time. Working for the man that was systematically ruining her life. And she had called him a brother.

"Don't start another one of your lectures on morals-" Thomas began to moan, shaking his head, but she cut him off.

"He's a murderer, and a madman! He uses children as his pawns and then kills them! And you join him voluntarily?" D'Artagnan spat.

"It's the money," He shrugged. "I wanted something better and he gave it to me. I'm no different to you and your musketeer worshiping,"

"Oh don't you dare!" Claude thundered, scrambling to her feet. "Don't you dare compare them to him! That man wouldn't know the meaning of honour, or...or bravery! And you've just shot one of the best!"

"Thomas, get the job done, or I will!" D'Artagnan's captor snapped. Thomas shook his head, before raising his pistol, pointing it directly at her.

"It's a shame your boss wants us alive," Claude sighed, wiping the stray tears from her cheek and covering her face with a fierce expression. The young man's aim faltered slightly. "After all, that's what he said when I last saw him, about an hour ago,"

"She's lying,"

"Want to take that chance do you?" D'Artagnan asked, shrugging off the man who held him, and joining Claude's side. "Because Dalvuax doesn't seem like the type of man I'd want to cross. But of course, it's up to you gentlemen,"

He was playing along perfectly, and Claude threw him a grateful look, glad that she wasn't alone in her stance. The men in front of them looked hesitant, glancing at each other, before Thomas finally gave a frustrated sigh, lowering his gun completely.

"Get him ready to ride. No funny business, or we will shoot,"

As soon as he had finished speaking, Claude returned to Athos' side, D'Artagnan close behind. She gently grasped at the leather of his jerkin, and when his eyes fluttered open, his head turning towards her as he uttered a groan, she screwed her eyes tight shut, lowering her head and letting out a shaky sigh of relief.

"It appears we were being followed," Came a pained, but ever dry voice below her.

"Really?" D'Artagnan asked over her shoulder. "What makes you say that?"

They managed to get Athos to his feet, each taking an arm over their shoulder to hold him up as much as possible. He did well to suppress his pained cries, and they only escaped his mouth as a muffled choked groan, but Claude could see his eyes clouding over, his jaw gritted tightly against it. It took them a while, but they finally got the injured man off of the road, and under the shade of a nearby tree, the grass below giving a slightly softer surface for him, and sheltering them from the bright rays of the setting Spring sun.

Claude unbuttoned his jerkin as carefully as possible, wincing as Athos hissed in pain when the wet leather left the wound. His shirt underneath was already soaked red, plastered to his back, a great hole torn in it. The blood was flowing quickly, and Claude nearly froze in fear at the sight of it, but managed to keep her composure. She pulled his scarf from around his neck, the silver locket falling out in the process. The girl paused for a second, eyebrows furrowing slightly. She'd forgotten about that. No time for questions now however.

Athos' had his head leaning on his arm against the tree, his eyes screwed tightly shut, jaw working against the pain. He was still terribly pale, but at least he was conscious now. Claude removed her knife from her shoe, and slit open the back of his shirt, slowly peeling it away from the wound. She grimaced at the sight of the torn skin, a dark black hole in his back. Any further to the left and it would have been his spine. The thought sent a chill through her. Claude pressed the rolled up scarf to his back, and he flinched slightly, but didn't make a sound.

"You gave me quite a fright back there," Her voice was still shaky, and Athos turned his head slowly, painful to the side, cracking his eyes open.

"Yes, well now you know how I feel every time you go missing,"

Claude tried to smile at his retort, but her bottom lip wobbled dangerously. She cursed at herself for being weak, foolish. "I don't want to loose you," Her voice sounded very small to her, pathetic even, and she was acutely aware of D'Artagnan on the other side of the man, but she pressed on. "I don't know what I'd do,"

Athos' voice was weak, rasping. "Claude-"

"Is he ready yet?" Thomas interrupted. Again. He really had terrible timing.

Claude pursed him lips slightly, trying to keep her temper in check, but her eyes narrowed, meeting Athos' pained ones. With an annoyed sigh, she stood, turning around face him.

"How do you sleep at night? I still see their faces, so I can't imagine what horrors you must witness every time you close your eyes,"

Thomas looked almost tired, exhaling loudly before shaking his head. "Just tell me when he's ready,"

Claude opened her mouth to argue, fists clenching until the whites of her knuckles stood out. She was going to swing for him, knock him down, let out all of the pent up anger and grief caught in her chest, who cares if he shot her? The girl took a step forward, but then stopped. She couldn't die. She had to make sure Athos got out of this alive. A hand on her shoulder caught her attention.

"Any ideas?" D'Artagnan murmured quietly, his gaze looking past her to the men beyond.

"We need to get him to Aramis," Claude muttered. "But until then I need something to bind the wound with, to keep the pressure on. He's loosing blood fast, and if I can't slow it down he'll-" The girl's voice broke dangerously, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to get herself together.

"Hey, hey!" D'Artagnan uttered softly, "Listen, Athos is going to be fine. We'll get out of this, I promise," He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, before looking over his shoulder at the men watching them carefully. "But what are we going to use for the wound,"

Claude didn't reply for a second, a slight crease appearing between her brows as she considered his question. They needed something long enough, something to keep the pressure on. The idea struck her, and it didn't fill her with confidence. Her chest binding would be ideal. Getting it off however, would not. She gave a small nod towards the musketeer, and D'Artagnan followed her over.

The blood was still flowing down Athos' back, and Claude felt a flickering of panic that the wound had been left to bleed freely. The man's skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and when his eyes flickered open at their approach, she could see the pain and tiredness in his laboring stare.

"I need you to keep pressure on the wound until I get this binding off," She told D'Artagnan, handing him the blood stained scarf. The young man immediately applied pressure on the wound, eliciting a groan from his friend.

"Binding?" D'Artagnan asked as he knelt on the ground.

A flushing of Claude's cheeks came in reply, before she turned to Thomas and the other men. When she spoke, her voice was bereft of emotion, all sense of familiarity having left it. "Do you mind turning away? I need to undress,"

Thomas frowned at her, folding his arms. "Why?"

"Because-" Claude's teeth were gritted together, her fists clenching. "I need the binding I'm wearing to bandage the bloody great hole you put in his back!"

Thomas looked reluctant, as if he was about to argue back, but gave a heavy sigh, turning around slowly, arms still crossed. He nodded at his companions, and one of the men flashed Claude a smirk, before giving a disappointed sigh and following suit. The last man however, stared at her, and didn't move. Claude raised an eyebrow at him, waving her hand in a circular motion, but that only elicited a small snide from him.

"One of us has to make sure you don't try anything while our backs are turned. A difficult job to be sure,"

Claude flashed a look at her friends, and found them both to be glaring in the man's direction, as if hoping by sheer force of will that that their gaze would make him drop dead. Nothing of such luck occurred however, and it seemed useless to argue, so Claude shuffled around to the opposite side of the tree, out of his view as much as possible, and turned her back, taking a quick glance over her shoulder. D'Artagnan was nervously looking away in the opposite direction, and Athos' forehead was once again pressed into his arm, eyes closed. The guard was watching her greedily.

No point wasting any time. She quickly unbuttoned the tunic, pulling it off and chucking it at her feet, before slipping the shirt over her head. The knot Athos had tied in the binding was firm, and it took her a good few nervous moments of tugging before it finally gave way, and she could unwind the material, one arm hovering close to her chest, ready to cover herself as soon as the binding was free. There was no time to savor the freedom of movement that her lungs now felt, and as soon as she could, she stooped to the ground, grabbing the shirt and pulling it over her head once more. She hesitated with the tunic, but decided to leave it be. There was no point staining all of her borrowed clothes with blood.

When she turned around once more, material in hand, the guard was grinning from ear to ear. Her cheeks flushed a hot red, and she looked down her her feet, ignoring him as hurried over to Athos' side.

"You can turn around now," The guard told the others. "There wasn't much worth seeing anyway,"

Claude was not expecting Athos to move so quickly, in his injured state, and the half groan, half roar that escaped his lips was both terrifying and painful. He tried to drag himself to his feet, his hands stretching out in front to use the tree as support, but his friends grabbed him, gently pushing him back onto his knees. His eyes, still cloudy with pain, were filled with rage, his jaw working dangerously.

"Woah woah!" Claude told him as he finally stopped struggling and settled back against the tree. "If you could save defending my honour for when you're not bleeding, that would be great!"

He was taking in short, fast breaths, and his eyes quickly snapped shut again as D'Artagnan pressed the bloodied scarf into his back, before Claude wrapped the bandage around for the first time. It quickly became red with blood, although Claude couldn't be sure if it was from the wound, the scarf, or D'Artagnan's now bloodstained hands as he helped to hold it in place.

"There," Claude muttered as she tied the bandage. "There's not much more we can do until we can get to Aramis," She grabbed his jerkin, gingerly placing it around his shoulders, to keep him warm. A painful shivering seemed to have overtaken his body, shock no doubt. With each shudder, her pressed his forehead harder into his arm, teeth grinding together. "Perhaps you should lie down for a bit,"

"You've finished binding it?" Thomas had appeared beside them, still nursing his pistol. Neither of them answered, but a quick look at the man was all the answer he need. "Get him on the horse. We ride immediately,"

"Thomas, listen, he's still got the shot in his shoulder, he can't ride anywhere-"

"No Claude, you listen!" He snapped back, his temper finally breaking. "Get him on the horse, or I'll put a round through his head this time. And don't think I wont, one less musketeer is no hardship to me!"

Yes, she was definitely going to slap him the next chance she got.

* * *

 

Wandering down the dirt road towards the village, feet beginning to tire and one hand firmly grasping the bridle of the horse, Claude began to find herself wondering how often musketeers found themselves injured. Athos was obviously an extremely competent soldier, that much was obvious, but she had spotted a few scars on his body when binding the wound that suggested that he'd been injured before, and the composure he was showing seemed to confirm this. The man was clearly in a lot of pain, especially with the horse shifting beneath him, but he made little noise, nor complaint, staying slumped forward in his saddle. God only knows how much he was suffering.

Claude wasn't a particularly religious woman. The few prayers she'd uttered in her life had been unanswered, save my mother, protect the boys, and she'd finally given up hope that they would work at all. If there was a God out there, he didn't care about the low born beggars. But here she was, sending silent prayers to whoever would listen, to help her get Athos out of this alive, and to provide some sort of sign about how to do it. Nothing had turned up as of yet.

"Why does Thomas despise musketeers so vehemently?" Athos' tired voice brought her out of her revelry with a jump. She looked over her shoulder at him, to where he sat watching her, his suffering evident on his handsome features.

"His father tried to join your ranks to feed his destitute family. He was turned away,"

"The king only honours a chosen few with a position in our ranks," He paused, his held tilting slightly in question. "You shared his sentiments?"

Claude looked away, unsure how to reply. Her eyes tracked the movement of the figures ahead. "At a time, perhaps. I thought them arrogant, and unkind. Unconcerned with the suffering of us lowly street rats,"

"And now?"

The girl turned around once more, a small smile on her lips that held no mirth, and did not reach her eyes. "My opinion on many such matters has changed in the last few months. My friends are my enemies, my enemies my friends. You have turned my world upside down Monsieur,"

"You have lost much since our first meeting. But should it provide any comfort, I am glad to have met you Claude,"

The young woman reached a hand up, grasping his in her fingers. She felt choked up, unable to process the correct words, or sentiment, but her actions seemed to speak loudly enough, and the man gave a weak squeeze back, before grimacing slightly, and letting go to reach his hand up to his shoulder. His eyes dropped once more, his head slumping slightly. Claude's heart picked up as the seriousness of the situation hit her once more.

Up ahead, she could see the outskirts of the village, not far at all, but Thomas was leading them off the road, towards the trees. Perhaps they could make a break for it? No, not likely. For one thing, D'Artagnan was up ahead, a pistol to his back to stop them trying any funny business. And Thomas rode on their other horse, and would easily chase them down. The situation was bleak. No, it was dire. The sun was beginning to droop behind the tree line, casting deep, long, dark shadows across the fields. The darkness would soon be upon them, in fact, it would already be taking over the forest. With that in mind, a plan began to formulate in Claude's mind. Perhaps things weren't so hopeless after all.

* * *

 

Once on horseback, they had lost their attackers fairly quickly, the children clinging to their mounts with absolute terror. The branches and leaves had whipped past their faces, hooves thundering against the forest floor, and then they had emerged into the blinding sunlight of the late afternoon. The village was ahead, but they did not slow, clearing the fences ahead of them in great leaps. It wasn't until they entered the shelter of the houses that they pulled at the reigns of their horses, practically skidding to a halt.

Porthos had helped the still crying Anna down from the horse, but instead of letting him place her firmly on the ground, she tightened the grip on his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist. It seemed that he had found a friend for life. Samuel had practically thrown himself from Aramis' horse, dashing across the dusty ground to a house a small distance away, calling over his shoulder as he went.

"We have to warn everyone!"

The musketeers had exchanged a glance, Aramis raising an eyebrow slightly at the girl clinging to Porthos like a limpet, and then followed at a jog. Somehow, they had a feeling that this ordeal was far from over. Aramis split away from the others, heading for the nearest house, and began hammering on the door, his eyes carefully watching the treeline beyond the outskirts of the village. There was no answer, and he hammered again.

"Musketeers!" He announced, and after a few seconds, the door creaked open.

Inside was a terrified looking woman, peaking around the door, which was only open a crack. Her stomach was huge, clearly pregnant by a long while, perhaps her first child judging by her youth. In one hand, she held the poker for the fire.

"Musketeer you say?" She asked in a shaky voice, but there was a fierce flicker of bravery in her eyes.

"I beg your forgiveness for the disturbance Madame. We must speak with the whole village, if you could gather-"

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't know you," She interrupted, trying to shut the door, but Aramis put his hand out catching. The flicker of fear her saw in her eyes sickened him slightly.

"Madame, I-"

"It's alright Joanne," Came a voice behind him, and he turned to see John and his mother, who had spoken. "He means no harm," Her next statement was aimed at Aramis. "We're in trouble then?"

"I'm afraid so, yes," Aramis removed his hat, holding it to his chest.

"Then we better be swift. John, help the man gather everyone,"

With John's help, it didn't take him long before the entire village was gathered outside, waiting to hear the news. Porthos finally emerged from Samuel's house, the little girl trailing behind him, her small hand grasped firmly in his big one. He was followed by Samuel, as well as three other girls, all younger than Anna, and an old woman, presumably the grandmother.

"Is this everyone?" Aramis asked, looking around at the group. It comprised only of women, children and elders. No men.

"The men are out working in the fields," Porthos replied quietly. "And a lot of the mothers and older children. Everyone lends a hand here,"

"Spot any weapons?" Aramis asked.

"Couple of old pitchforks. A rifle that looks like it's not been used in a while," His friend muttered. "And this lot are hardly soldiers,"

Aramis gave a brisk nod, looking around. The villagers were watching intently, their expressions not entirely friendly. Clearly they'd had enough of strangers interfering, terrorising them. A shiver ran through the man. Perhaps they wouldn't live to see their freedom restored. No. There was no point thinking like that. They were musketeers. They would see them to safety.

"As some of you may have suspected, a fugitive to the King has been hiding in the forest behind your village. Now, this man is injured, but still very dangerous. Your recent increase in highway robbery has been caused by his men, who seem to be numerous in number," He paused, watching the scared faces in front of him. "We have reason to believe that this village is at risk of an attack,"

The crowd erupted into panicked squabbling, and it took a few minutes until they noticed Aramis raised hands as he tried to gain their attention.

"When do your men return from the fields?" Porthos asked.

Joanne, the pregnant girl from earlier was the first to respond. "They work until sunset. So not for another hour at least,"

"We can send word for them," John pipped up, flushing furiously as the attention turned to him. "I-I could run out there,"

"No you could not!" His mother snapped, giving him a cuff around the ear.

"But mother!"

"Your mother is right," Aramis interrupted. "This man has no morals, no honour. He would not hesitate to harm a child,"

"He killed Theiry," Samual spoke up, his voice quiet.

The crowd was silent, the only sound the snuffling of Anna, who wiped her nose on her sleeve. The eyes of the village were now focussed squarely on the musketeers, looking for guidance, for help. Their last hope.

"What do we do?" Joanne asked, her voice shaking.

Aramis paused for a second, fixing her with a solemn but gentle gaze.

"We survive,"

* * *

 

Claude's head snapped up as the gunshot cracked in the distance, heart a flutter. Something was happening, in the village by the sound of it. Perhaps Dalvaux' men had decided to go after the children. Whatever was happening though, meant that there was one more barrier between them and Aramis. She had to do something, and quick.

But signally D'Artagnan was impossible, especially now that they were under the darkness of the trees. She would have to rely on him reacting as quickly as possible. And Athos was another matter, slouched over, barely conscious on the back of his horse, he was in no fit state to fight, and would be an instant target. Unless...unless she just left him behind. She gave a short tug on the mare's reigns, stopping the beast and froze, weighting to see if the others noticed. But there was no call of alarm, no questions barked. Perhaps this would work after all.

Resuming her careful walk through the undergrowth, Claude sped up, catching up with the others fairly quickly. She stooped, reaching down into her boots, and found the hilt of her knife, pulling it out as quietly as possible, and then approached Thomas, praying that no twigs would snap below her feet. Her plan? Well, she didn't really have one. They could take Thomas back to Paris, and he would go to trial. It would be easy to cut his throat from behind, and the thought played at the edge of her mind, but something held her back. A weakness maybe. No, she just couldn't do that.

Taking a deep breath, she lunged forward, arm wrapping around Thomas' neck, intending to hold him hostage with her knife, but the boy was fast. There was a reason he'd survived on the streets for so long, Thomas was clever, he knew how to protect himself, and before Claude could utter any threats, he threw himself onto his back, landing on top of her and knocking the air straight out of her lungs. Winded, Claude began to struggle, but received an elbow to the face, and the next thing she knew, Thomas was biting into her arm, forcing her to slacken her grasp with a cry of pain. The young man was over her now, raising his fist to bring it down on her face, but she kicked out, and he landed on top of her, hands grasping for the knife she held. And it was there that they began to tumble over each other, fighting for dominance.

The thundering of gunshots rung out over their heads as they rolled, the flashes lighting up the trees above them. But there was little Claude could do to stop them, as they came to a halt and Thomas landed on top of her once more, the full weight of the larger man pressing down. Her hands were still grasping at the knife, and with a stabbing pain, she found herself gripping the blade, it slicing into the palm of her hand, making it slippery with blood. She kicked out blindly, hearing a satisfying grunt as her shin connected with Thomas' body, and his attack lessened.

One of his hands was reaching up, across the exposed skin of her collar bone as her baggy shirt hung open, and then onto her neck, wrapping around her throat where the white scar left by Dalvaux ran, pressing, choking the air out of her. She panicked, trying to kick again but found her legs now pinned under him, and lashed out blindly with her hands. The knife sunk into something soft, fleshy, and Thomas froze, a painful grunt coming from his lips. A hot, sticky drip landed on Claude's chest, and then another, and another before the fight left Thomas completely, and she shoved, sending him toppling onto his back, hands clutching at the knife protruding from his chest.

"T-Thomas?" Claude's voice sounded very small as she crawled across the ground towards him.

The young man was shaking, his hands grasping at the bloody blade, and with a cry, he pulled it from his chest, a splatter of blood coating him as he did. His face was pale, and when he took a breath, there was an odd, sickening gurgling sound. A trail of blood spluttered out of his mouth, running down his chin.

"I d-didn't know t-they shoot t-them. J-just the f-fire they told me," he choked out, blood flecking Claude's face as she bent over him. "T-they weren't s-supposed to die," He gave a groan, throwing back his head, coughing up more blood. "Why did y-you have to go to t-those damn musket-musketeers!?"

"Because it was wrong," the girl replied, her eyes stinging with tears. "This is wrong, all wrong. I didn't want this-"

But Thomas was convulsing, the blood frothing slightly in his mouth, and his eyes rolling backwards. And then it stopped. Thomas, the boy she had once called brother, was dead.

The noise that erupted from Claude's throat was ugly, gut-wrenching. Her fists hammered down onto the dead man's chest, an overwhelming mixture of rage and grief. She began to scramble around in the leaves and dirt, her fingers finding the hilt of her her knife, before standing and launching it overhead into the trees with a guttural roar. And then she stopped, chest heaving in breaths of air, tears tracing tracks down her dirty face. She was so tired, tired of everything. Slowly, as if carrying a great weight, Claude crunched back through the undergrowth to where D'Artagnan stood above the bodies of their other guards.

"Claude-" He began, clearly about to give some form of moral support, but she cut him off, and although her voice was still thick from her recent tears, it sounded strangely empty, as if coming from a shell.

"We should get to the village. Find Aramis,"

Another death on her hands, another lost friend. But this night was far from over.


End file.
